


Sleep of Reason

by Shaitanah, shirogiku



Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst and Humor, Blasphemy, Character Deaths, Dubious Consent, Dystopia, F/M, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mind Games, Multi, Other, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:53:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaitanah/pseuds/Shaitanah, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hal Yorke took three things from Rook: his job, his integrity and his faith.</p><p>To get them back, Rook gambles everything he's got left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Quotes from _The Lord’s Prayer_ ; Rookileaks 4; _Lady Windermere’s Fan_ by Oscar Wilde.  
>  **A/N** : We regret nothing.

The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

**Part I: Pen**

**Chapter 1**

Not a speck of lint on his immaculate grey suit, Rook walked past a row of empty cells and fastidiously washed his hands on his way out of the block. He had released all the Type 3s and disposed of the Type 2s. No more loose ends.

The government had collapsed but, for a year and a half, the Department of Domestic Defence had stood strong. Rook’s men eluded the newly assembled “police force”, utilising every resource that remained at their disposal. They collaborated with the budding resistance, arranged escapes of refugees and generally made themselves a thorn in the new regime's side. 

And yet, they were hunted down one by one, smoked out of their underground shelters, brutally tortured, interrogated, killed and sometimes recruited. 

Rook sat down at his desk, straightened out the stationery and placed his stopwatch where he could see it. Then he took a deep breath and opened the drawer, taking out his revolver. 

He had watched the flood wash over the world, powerless to stop it. His lifetime’s work had been reduced to nil. There would be no place for a man like him on a hypothetical Noah’s Ark; death was the only logical conclusion and he would meet it on his own terms.

He did always believe his job would be the end of him. 

There were footsteps drawing near and his hand swerved without firing the shot

“You won't be needing this.” The vampire wrenched the revolver out of Rook’s hand. 

He had made Rook miss the sixty-seconds mark and the subsequent scheduled appointment. 

Rook flashed him an irritated look as he jolted to his feet and took a wooden cross out of his breast pocket. He pressed it to the creature’s face, raising his voice over the sound of his heartbeat and driving every word home:

_Our Father which art in heaven,_  
 _Hallowed be thy name._  
 _Thy kingdom come._  
 _Thy will be done, as in heaven, so in earth._

A slow, hungry smile spread over the vampire’s face, even as the other ones hissed and shielded their eyes. “Rook. You're the leader of this merry band of rogues, aren't you? I suppose I'm lucky then.” He pulled away from the cross slightly and pressed a playful kiss to it. 

Rook mouthed, “An Old One...” His composure slipped. “ _Yorke_.” The name spoke for itself.

The henchmen recovered and moved to cut off his escape routes.

Rook darted away, looking around frantically. The stake and the revolver were out of reach. He rammed his hand into his pocket, producing... his favourite pen. 

Yorke watched him with amused air.

“Pleasant as this tête-à-tête has been...” Rook angled his hand to stab himself in the neck.

Yorke snapped his fingers and his men restrained Rook mid-motion. He thrashed against them, to no avail. The cross hadn’t kept them at bay. It lay on the floor, useless.

Yorke sighed and took the pen away. “Oh, a quality writing utensil. Are there any more of you, or are you the last man standing?”

Rook met Yorke's eyes. “The last one. You’ve won.” His voice faltered. “I implore you, end this quickly.”

“Well, since you're asking so nicely.” Yorke sauntered up to him and stared at him for a moment, making him shiver. 

He touched Rook's lips with the tip of the pen and trailed it down his chin and down his neck. He stopped to the left, at the pulse point. “No, I think I've changed my mind.” He gestured at his men to take Rook away.

Rook’s eyes widened. “No! Please, don't do this! You have nothing more to gain!”

He didn't have to imagine what they did to their prisoners - he knew it - and it was losing his dignity and his integrity that frightened him most. 

Yorke drawled, “There's always something to gain. You of all people should know that, Mr Rook.” 

He ordered one of his men to confiscate the remaining archive materials, then seal off the place, and left the room ahead of them.

Rook hung his head low until Yorke was gone and they were outside, and resumed shouting the prayer, breaking free. He ran for the trees but caught a blow to the head before he reached them. 

He went down, dimly hearing someone say, “Spry little partisan.” He felt a kick in the ribs as he passed out.

* * *

He came to on a cell bench, his palms dirty and his throat sandpaper dry, the residual ache rooted seemingly in every nerve. They had clearly mistaken him for a punching bag.

He sat up groggily and noticed Yorke waiting just outside the cell. Yorke smiled. “Good evening, Mr Rook. How are you feeling?”

He had been stripped of all personal items, as though _he_ was the criminal. He schooled his expression into a mask of politeness. “Good evening, Mr Yorke. Quite well, given the circumstances.”

“Would you like anything? A glass of water perhaps?” Yorke’s tone was pleasant. ”You sound... raspy.” 

“My revolver, of course.” He coughed. “Water would be marvellous, though.”

Yorke gestured at the guard, then took out Rook’s revolver. “Beautiful weapon. Where did you get it?”

Rook answered circumspectly, “I served in the Army.”

“Oh? In what rank if you don't mind me asking?” The guard brought water and Yorke held it out to him. It was in a paper cup - for safety.

“Lieutenant.” He stood up slowly and approached the cell bars, reaching out for the cup, but Yorke didn't relinquish the hold immediately. As a result, he had to bend his neck at an awkward angle. Their fingers brushed - Yorke’s were colder.

“Tell me, Lieutenant.” Yorke put the gun to Rook's forehead. “Why are you so eager to die?”

Rook looked at him steadily. “The job was my life. There is no place for me in your brave new world.”

“You are a fighter for a cause. We have got a cause. Fight for it.”

“You can't be serious!” He flinched in disgust and then regained his composure. “I'm afraid I must decline your _generous_ offer, Mr Yorke.”

Yorke chuckled at his outburst. “Shall we play a game, Mr Rook? There is one round remaining in this gun. I'm going to pull the trigger now and if it fires, then... well, you'll get your wish granted obviously. But if it doesn't... you will reconsider my proposal.” 

Little wonder they had made Yorke their spokesman.

He drew a sharp breath, weighing the pros and cons. One chance in six. “Let it never be said that you play fair, Mr Yorke.” His hands were shaking a little. “I agree to your game.” If only because one chance in six was better than zero.

For a single moment, he dared to hope for swift deliverance. Yorke pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. “Looks like I win.” 

He would have liked to take that blow without embarrassing himself any further but his knees buckled and his hands squeezed the bars in silent rage.

Yorke put the revolver away. “I should say there is certain poetic justice about a hunter ending up in a cage. How many of our kind have perished in your holding cells?”

“I could give you the _exact_ figures.” The irony wasn't lost on him. “It was all for the greater good. You spoke of a _cause_ \- but what could possibly drive you if not your greed and malevolence?”

“Ah yes, the _greater good_. It reaps legendary tributes, far greater than a whole army of vampires ever could, and I have led several of those in my time. And yet, I see no particular good in this world.” Yorke smiled icily. “You could say I personally fight for equality. And evolution.”

“There was _balance_ , which you have so gleefully destroyed. There could be no equality between vampires and your food of choice. There never was. That was why men like me existed in the first place. And the word 'evolution' never goes out of style with demagogues.”

Yorke laughed. “Would you blame the Homo Sapiens for evolving from its lesser ancestors? I don't think so. As for the balance, you would know all about that, would you not? Your people were there in the sixteenth century when the clerics tore out our teeth and chopped our heads off. You trailed us with stakes and crucifixes, locked us up in monasteries, drowned us in holy water and trapped us in burning buildings. And remind me, will you: what were those holding cells in your archives for? Experiments?”

He said through gritted teeth, “ _Containment_. You always reap what you sow: mindless chaos and violence. I shall not list your sins against humanity - it would take hours merely to get started.”

“You wouldn't judge a tiger for being a carnivorous beast. I suggest you stop judging us, too.” Yorke opened the cell and came in. “The sooner the better. Trust me, I have lived with intense self-loathing. It's very inconvenient.”

“Vampires don’t require blood to _survive_ \- it is merely a highly-addictive recreational drug.” He faced Yorke as though they were on a battlefield. “Old habits die hard.” He would not lose his last shred of self-respect. 

Yorke smiled. “But they can be overwritten.” His eyes went black. He pushed him against the wall and tore into his neck.

Rook made a gurgling sound, his focus narrowing down to the sharp pain and the blood being drained out of his system. In spite of having dealt with Type 2s for his entire career, he had never been bitten by one. He monitored himself with clinical detachment, as though preparing to jot down a report. 

He murmured, “What big teeth you have got.” Quipping felt altogether better than succumbing to hysteria.

He had locked these creatures away and then fought against them in the open. He had been hunted by them but he had never been their victim. All those children with animal fear in their eyes. The belated insider's perspective. 

Alas, Yorke restrained his laughter instead of accidentally killing him. Rook’s heartbeat slowed down. Yorke pulled away, tore his wrist open and pressed it to Rook's mouth.

He could barely see past the dark spots clouding his vision. He had fully intended to refuse and persist until his heart stopped but something primal and treacherous, a lust for life he hadn't known he possessed, rose up in him and made him clamp his mouth over Yorke's wrist instead.

* * *

He returned to the world of the living with the fangs out and black pits for eyes. He was drenched in sweat and his insides burned with hunger - ‘hunger’ being too weak a word to accurately classify it.

Rook closed his fist and prodded at his teeth with his knuckles uneasily. Did those come with an instruction manual? He tried to push them back and cut himself instead. His blood tasted like a foreign substance.

Rook pressed his palm to his chest. God, his suit had been utterly ruined. It made his skin crawl. At least they had mopped up the blood while he was... indisposed. 

His hearing had sharpened: he listened to the sluggish, inhuman thing occupying his ribcage.

“Good morning... “ He trailed off, unsure how to refer to Yorke. It was alarming how little this awakening differed from the previous one. He had only lost his humanity in between.

Yorke nodded. “Morning.” He appraised Rook. “Hungry?”

Rook flinched, shaking his head. The very thought made him sick.

“All in good time. I suggest you move into more appropriate quarters.” Yorke's eyes twinkled slyly. “Unless you still maintain that all vampires should remain behind bars.”

Rook wobbled to his feet, feeling dizzy. He straightened his back and glanced at Yorke. “That would be rather redundant, given that the entire world is the cage these days.”

Yorke huffed. “Are you always this pessimistic?” He turned and walked out of the cell, leaving it open for Rook to follow.

“No, it seems to be the effect of your illustrious company.” Rook strode after him without a second glance at the cell.

Outside, it was a fine day, surprisingly sunny. Rook must have slept through the night. They walked down the corridor towards one of the suites that had belonged to the members of the royal family. When he learned that Yorke had moved into the Buckingham Palace, he hadn’t known whether to laugh or weep.

He passed through a patch of sunlight, momentarily squeezing his eyes shut. He should probably start considering a change of clothes but the notion was painful on a visceral level.

Yorke opened the door and stepped aside, letting him in. Rook walked past Yorke and scanned his new accommodations indifferently. Not a piece of wood to be procured. Otherwise, he preferred plain, utilitarian environments. 

First of all, he went to wash his hands, avoiding the mirror. Then he returned to open the wardrobe and gave Yorke a startled look. “How very... thoughtful of you.” Inside, a number of grey suits identical to his own, a few expensive black suits and even some casual clothes could be found. Rook's manners fought with his disdain and the manners won. “What should I call you?”

“‘My lord' would be the protocol.” Yorke smiled crookedly.

Rook relished the impulse to run the smug bastard through the experiments #B33 to #B99. He echoed, “My lord.” Ranks and protocol, he could do that.

Yorke raised his eyebrows as though he hadn't actually expected Rook to comply. “Very good.” He paused. “I shall leave you to it.” He didn't specify what the "it" was. “By the way, a few of your colleagues happen to be stationed here. If you ever want to have a chat, be my guest.”

Rook intercepted him. “In what capacity exactly, if I may ask? Recruits or... blood source?” He wasn't prepared to handle either possibility but he would be, after he had rearranged the tatters of what he considered himself.

“In the same capacity as you. Fergus in particular was breaking in a rather interesting young lady.”

Rook nodded grimly. As soon as Yorke left, he peeled off his clothes and stepped back into the bathroom. He took a scalding shower, as if it were possible to wash away the filth and the cold that had seeped into his bones. He turned up the spray and shouted on top of his lungs, pounding his fists against the tiles.

* * *

 _Do your job right, and clean, and well, because it is the most important job in the world_ , was what his father used to say. _But then, when you loosen your tie at the end of the day, leave it all behind. It can’t touch you._

The latter, in Rook’s opinion, called for debate.

After everything that had happened it was little wonder he couldn’t sleep at night. Why would a dead body require sleep anyway?

He listened to the silence around him and within him, searching for proof of life. His heart gave him one every minute, just one, and it wasn’t enough. He held his breath and counted down the seconds, saw them turn into minutes, and nothing happened. He was breathing, but it wasn’t vital.

He sat on the bed, cataloguing every sensation. All those aches and pains that had seemed so insignificant were gone, and it was their absence that he noticed, not their presence. The loose filling in one of the upper left molars used to give him a sort of a pulsing discomfort; he had been meaning to replace it for ages, but never got around to doing it. It was gone now. He couldn’t even check if the tooth had healed or the filling had stopped coming out. It was a small thing, but it was human. Just like the bruises he had received upon detention or slight heartburn resulting from bad diet over the last year and a half. His body didn’t look brand new, but it seemed altered enough for him to find it strange. Superficial familiarity only made it worse.

And then the fangs of course. They came out whenever he found himself drifting off, whenever every object in his field of vision would acquire a red tint. He slid the tip of his tongue over them, again and again. He could bite it off and die from blood loss or choke on his own blood; it appeared that Yorke hadn’t considered this scenario. And yet, along came morning, and Rook was still alive.

He got up and put on a grey suit. It made him feel more like himself.

That morning he was being summoned to a session. Rook had no idea what that entailed. Yorke’s so-called administration was a ludicrous parody of the old government. From what Rook understood, they convened whenever Yorke felt like it and wherever he felt like holding those meetings; he imagined they mostly discussed how to crush the resistance.

The overwhelming luxury of the palace that in the old days might have served to demonstrate the rich historical heritage of the country now seemed garish and out of place, not to mention unprofessional. Rook took a seat at the end of a long table and looked around discreetly. He recognized a few faces here and there. A brutish man with sharp features, wearing the black police coat, was Fergus; Rook vaguely remembered seeing him in the archives, but more importantly, the DoDD used to have a file on him. The atrocities he committed against the captive members of the resistance were legendary. A younger man next to him – Cutler, if Rook remembered correctly, – looked profoundly bored. On Fergus’ right, there sat a woman in her early thirties, light brown hair brushed back from her angular face. Rook nodded at her. She nodded back curtly and fumbled with the sleeve of her black uniform coat self-consciously. She looked guilty. He should do too. He remembered her in grey, Cora Glendale from Glasgow, one of the few women on active duty in the DoDD. Later, a few more of his former colleagues arrived, and he struggled to ignore pangs of hunger and the smell of blood rolling off them all in waves. He didn’t acknowledge them, unwilling to face any more guilt.

Rook hadn’t had a drop of blood since his transformation. His Department used to run a government-sponsored programme of blood distribution among registered vampires. They made it look so easy. A small dose of blood every day, just to keep oneself going. He could do that too. There was no shortage of blood here.

The image and the phantom aftertaste of Yorke’s blood in his mouth made Rook’s stomach churn. He steepled his fingers and contemplated taking up smoking again.

Reports started coming in. Yorke listened to them, the air of majestic world-weariness around him. Rook couldn’t help wondering if it was an act or not. One could not be truly so unconcerned with his own state, could he?

For his part, Rook found himself fascinated with the inner workings of this new “government”. This species lived forever and seemed to believe it had all the time in the world, hence their attitude to the most pressing problems appeared to be alarmingly light-hearted. Then again, what else was there to be expected from the people whose leader had killed the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom during a live transmission on national television and afterwards claimed the man had tasted like buttered toast? However, there were a few exceptions. Fergus’ report was in particular quite interesting, since it concerned internal security. They had slaughtered most of the employees of the Home Office, and now it was in dire need of reorganization. In Rook’s opinion, that went for the whole country, but nobody seemed to be interested in his opinion.

At least until Yorke rose from his seat and declared magnanimously:

“With regards to what we have just discussed, allow me to present our new Home Secretary.” He turned towards Rook. “Mr Dominic Rook.”

Unsurprisingly, he hadn't breathed a word of it to Rook in advance. Rook’s eyes widened. He heard Cutler mutter: “Who the hell is that?” Fergus' eyes were bright with malice. "His lordship's new chew-toy."

Rook’s former colleagues avoided looking at him, while Yorke’s men stared openly, not without hostility. A wry smile tugged at his mouth. This felt like a bad April Fools’ joke.

“It's an honour, my lord,” he said in a tight voice.

Cutler commented in an undertone, but not low enough not to be heard, "Apple-polisher."

Fergus nudged Cutler with his elbow. "Somebody's jealous."

Rook could hardly believe it was happening to him. Utterly surreal. He used to envy Alistair for going out so swiftly. Oh, good old Alistair would have gone chalk-pale if he had seen this. The thought of Rook of all people running the Home Office would have been like a bone caught in his throat.

When the session was over, Rook borrowed a cigarette from someone and went ahead to take over his new duties. As he talked to his assistant, declining a decanter, and went over the paperwork, he found himself looking for loopholes he could exploit to aid humanity, even in his precarious, compromised position. Perhaps the deal he had made with the devil was worth it after all.

* * *

After a two-day respite from Yorke, Rook stepped into his office and found it invaded by the fearless leader. Yorke was reclining in his chair, a decanter waiting on the desk.

Rook blinked, his eyes flickering to black. He balled up his fists and slowly got it under control, closing the door behind himself.

Yorke drawled, “Mr Rook. What a pleasure it is to see you in good health.” 

Rook took it as a dig both at the fact that he had compliantly accepted the position and the fact that he looked far from healthy, shaking at the sight of blood.

He inclined his head. “My lord.” It would have been a waste to stake himself before at least trying to do some good. “The home affairs are a right mess, if I may be so blunt.” He remained by the door. The blood seemed to pulsate at him enticingly.

“I know. That is why I appointed you as the head of it. You are just the man for the job.” Yorke twirled a pen in his hand - Rook's pen.

Rook took a deep breath, out of habit. “In that case you have chosen wisely.” There was no room for false modesty. “May I smoke?”

“You may do whatever you want. The opposite would rather negate the point of giving you this office, don’t you think?” Yorke bit thoughtfully at the tip of the pen and Rook fought down a stab of anger, almost possessiveness at the violation. 

He looked away and lit his cigarette, then finally took a seat in one of the visitor chairs, offering Yorke the pack as an afterthought.

“I wouldn't have pegged you for a smoker.” Yorke accepted, looking at Rook appraisingly.

He buttoned up under the scrutiny, smiling. “I don't have to worry about my lungs anymore, do I?” There were certain tricks to being invisible, reflecting nothing of oneself. He did not want to supply Yorke with any more ammunition.

“Good point. How are you finding your new... conditions?” Yorke demonstratively took a sip of blood from the glass. 

Rook glanced at Yorke's lips and at his Adam's Apple, and looked up again. “I marvel at your hospitality.” 

Yorke wore his mask like second skin but Rook saw the monster peeking out through the cracks.

“Oh, it's the least we could do after such... turbulent reintegration of your department into the official government.” Yorke toasted with the glass.

Vampires and their mind games. Rook still balked at the thought that they were indeed the official government now. “I must admit I haven't expected to see so many familiar faces.” He inhaled from his cigarette.

“You'd be surprised how many people do _not_ want to die after all. Give them a viable alternative - and opposite death, virtually anything goes - and they latch on to it with their bare teeth.” Yorke put the glass down and continued twiddling the pen between his fingers. “A hero's death is easy. A hero's life - now that's a real feat.”

And Rook himself would be a shining example of the latching on part, quite literally. His mouth formed a tiny, insincere smile. “There is a reason a ‘hero’ is so oft a posthumous status, I suppose. What would be your definition of a hero's life?”

“To continue living no matter how much it hurts. And no matter how much you hate yourself for it. I suppose I am a silver lining kind of a man at heart.” Yorke’s voice almost didn’t modulate, as though he truly believed what he was saying.

Those words didn't contradict Rook's convictions, surprisingly. He added, “And take pride in a job well done.” 

Yorke never did fully answer his question back in the cell. Everyone clung to their justifications, as Rook had discovered in his line of work. Even remorseless bloodsuckers.

“Still, work is work, but what about days-off? You do need to unwind occasionally, don't you?” Yorke took a post-it note and jotted down the address with Rook's pen. He moved the note across the table towards Rook. “There's going to be a party tomorrow night. Nothing fancy, just a small gathering.”

Rook watched the note like it was a Type 3 on the brink of transformation. “I'm afraid I'm not much of a party person.” His smile turned apologetic, with a dash of affected self-deprecation.

“A prominent position within the government unfortunately has its price, as I'm sure you well know.” Yorke flashed him a faux compassionate smile. “You're new. You must be seen.” The smile turned teasing. “Don't worry. They'll get tired of you soon enough. In a century, perhaps.”

Rook's eyes darted around, looking for wooden furniture. He forced out a chuckle. “A century is such a short time indeed.” He stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray. “I shall attend.”

“Wonderful.” Yorke rose, putting the pen back into his breast pocket, and headed to the door.

Rook had an absurd urge to chase after him and take it back. The decanter, still half-full, remained on the desk.

“Have a nice day, Dominic.”

“Likewise, my lord.” He didn’t at all appreciate Yorke calling him by his Christian name. The man made it sound far too... personal. 

With Yorke gone, Rook jolted upright and gripped the decanter, his hands trembling. Careful not to inhale the scent or God forbid spill the contents, he walked out of the office and handed it over to his assistant, disguising it as a nicety.

Rook turned around and found himself facing a new obstacle, someone he had previously seen at the meeting. He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” 

Cutler smirked. "Dominic Rook, right? That's your real name? I thought 'Rook' was an alias. Like 007.” 

Rook had been hearing him speak for less than a minute and he already wanted to never converse with him again. He said coolly, “Have you got an appointment, Mr Cutler?”

“Aha, you already know who I am." Cutler snatched Rook's hand and shook it. Now Rook would have to wash his hands again. "Oh, consider it a family visit.” 

Rook frowned in confusion and then interpreted it: Yorke was Cutler's maker as well. What sort of implications did it carry?

Cutler pushed the door open and entered first, perching himself in a _visitor_ chair, luckily. 

Rook sat down behind his desk. “What can I do for you, Mr Cutler?”

Cutler stared at him. "Tell me, Rook, have you got any family at all? Someone else close to you, perhaps?" 

Rook was thrown-off by that non-sequitur. If it was a threat, it was ill-timed and out of place. He said carefully, “There was one person... but not anymore. Why?” _Those_ memories were safely in a box.

"Oh." Cutler paused, something indecipherable passing over his face. Then he brightened again. “Well, then you’re perfect for the job. Congratulations.” 

He stood up and patted Rook on the shoulder. Rook tried not to wince at the unwanted physical contact. "I'll leave you to it." Cutler forgot to close the door. 

Rook mused to himself, “Am I now?” He imagined Alistair’s shell-shocked mien and let the image linger before archiving it for good. He didn’t need a patron saint.

* * *

Hal left party planning to Jacob, since Jacob wasn't doing anything else, as always. Jacob had recruited half of London already but he staunchly refused to have anything at all to do with the Men in Grey. Hal didn't blame him. 

Snow wasn't returning his calls, which was fine by him. Hal had sent him a communique detailing the ultimate downfall of the formidable Men in Grey, but as it often happened, he received no reply. It was Snow’s way of accentuating that he placed himself above the trivia. 

Hal confined himself to his room for the rest of the evening. He sat there, reading, when Cutler strode in and launched into a tirade right from the doorway:

“Did you know your Home Secretary’s playing cold turkey instead of croquet? You fed me my own wife, for fuck's sake! But no, the suit gets a pass, like it’s not enough that he's Fergus' boss.”

Hal answered calmly, without looking up, “He's not married.”

“Oh, that explains _everything_!” Cutler snatched the book out of Hal's hands and hit him with it. “God, you're such a dick! A, priests, I hear he's semi-religious; B, his fellow grey rats. Don't even try telling me you wouldn't get off on that.”

Hal slowly looked up at him. “Careful, Nick. Some boundaries are not meant to be crossed.”

Cutler dragged the book down Hal's chest and placed it on Hal lap. “The party's going to be a riot.” He winked at Hal and went back to where he came from.

Oh, Hal had no doubt about that. Funny that Fergus still hadn't come to express his displeasure at being Rook's underling. All in good time perhaps. 

The next night Hal discarded his habit of showing up just before dessert and arrived at the party in the forefront. He wanted to make sure it would go well. Jacob looked pleasantly surprised and a little alarmed.

As for Hal, he was in an explosively good mood. He didn't greet Rook personally and in fact pretended he didn't see him at all, but he made sure to be seen. The circle was rather close-knit: a few Old Ones, some younger aides and a few new recruits. Cutler was making a point of entertaining himself, Hal noted in bemusement.

A human jazz band was playing. In the middle of the party there was a commotion. The music stopped. Hal stepped up to the microphone. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing to worry about. Someone - let us not point fingers...” He vaguely pointed in Jacob's direction. “Someone ate the pianist.” He added in a lower voice, “Considering he was the only black person in the band, that smacks of racism.” 

A few people laughed. Jacob gave Hal the finger. Hal grinned. 

“Lucky for all of us, we have got... me.” 

He strolled towards the piano. The singer was standing near it, shivering with fear. She was a pretty young thing, her face strangely timeless, just the way he liked them. She might as well have hopped onto the stage straight from the roaring twenties. Jacob knew him so well. 

“What's the matter, sweetheart? Why the long face?” He touched her chin playfully. “Go on then. Sing.” He sat down and started playing. The rest of the band joined in. The girl forced herself to keep singing.

The audience cheered and Hal started improvising mid-number, daring the band to keep up. Fear had created more masterpieces than the history of art would have one believe.

He ran his fingers across the keys in the final flourish, then stood up and kissed the singer hard on the mouth before getting off the stage. 

Jacob threw his arm around Hal's shoulders. 

"Nice one. Accusing me of racism. I am omnivorous, you know that." Hal chuckled. "Besides, he was only person in the band worth looking at. Except for that angel over there but I left her to you." He smiled sarcastically. "Because we're friends." 

“I'm touched, Jacob.”

“The new Home Secretary looks famished. What have you been doing to him?" 

Hal scanned through the crowd. “Nothing... yet.” A certain someone was playing truant already. 

Jacob affected a serious tone for once. 

"Be honest with me: was it absolutely necessary? He's only been a vampire for, what, a week? We have got plenty of capable administrators who do not dream of staking us in our sleep."

“What's it to you? You spend half a year in Italy and the other half between somebody's legs.”

Jacob scoffed. "Look who's talking. I couldn't help noticing what pretty eyes your new chew-toy has." 

Hal asked coldly, “Jacob, is this going anywhere?” 

Jacob let go of him. "Just saying, Hal. Feed him. People might start talking."

Hal snatched two glasses from a waiter’s tray and made for the nearest balcony. As expected, Rook was all by himself in the chilly night air. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be listening to something, his chest expanding and contracting. Hal liked what he saw.

“A minute passes between each heartbeat.” Hal approached him and handed him the whiskey. Rook looked like he needed a drink, and not just blood. “Remarkable, isn't it? Heart is a powerful engine. It refuses to stop even after death.”

“Thank you.” Rook took a sip and nodded at him. “So I’ve noticed. I find it quite fascinating.”

Hal leaned against the rail. “You look... bored. I suppose you're really not a party person. But on the plus side, people now know you exist.”

Rook smiled. “I believe that was the plan for the evening. I admit my first reaction to the pianist incident was to calculate the clean-up time and decide on the cover-up scenario.”

Hal laughed. “And what did you come up with?” That was the beauty of their new world: no cover-ups required. Everything was done in the open.

Rook said in an adorably professional tone, “Scenario 4, hallucinogenic drugs.”

“I'm pretty sure you'd find actual hallucinogenic drugs here. Jacob gets a bit carried away sometimes.” Hal sipped his drink. “I understand your attachment to your job, Dominic. But perhaps it is time to put away your rifles.”

Rook took another sip as well. “The rifles are in the closet, under lock and key.”

What else was there in the closet? “Have you ever been married?”

Rook blinked. “No, I haven't.” He sounded as though the very idea was absurd.

“It's just, in my experience, the most staunchly opposed are the people who have lost someone by us. Usually it's a spouse or a child. Parent, perhaps, in which case you grow into the hate from an early age. More seldom - another family member or a friend.” Hal looked at him. “What is your trauma?”

Rook said in deadpan manner, “My goldfish died because I forgot to feed him. I called him Alistair, after my superior. Anyhow, I believe that not everybody needs a past trauma in order to protect people from the future ones.”

“A pure idealist then.” Hal looked at him with renewed curiosity. “Too bad people seldom appreciate your kind.” He lit up a cigarette. “Nobility, as a quality, has always intrigued me. If I were a scholar, I'd write a thesis on its futility.”

Rook contemplated his empty whiskey glass. “ _A cynic is a man who knows the price of everything, and the value of nothing._ ”

Hal chuckled. “Well said. I'm sure good old Oscar would have had plenty to say about the society as it is today. Do you read, Dominic?”

“Not as much as I'd have liked to.” Rook paused. “Oh, look, we found me a hobby.”

“Indeed we have.” Some loud noise came from the room. Hal rolled his eyes, then winked at Rook. “Truth be told, I'm not a party person either. Do excuse me.” He returned to the room to see what was going on.

It was an exercise in mockery and manipulation, but aside from that Hal found Rook a rather interesting conversation partner. He was a level above all the latest recruits. 

In the room, the banquet went on. It smelled like an opium den. Hal could drag Rook in and force-feed him, but he had other plans for him. He made a point of collecting Rook in his own car after the party ended, since they both headed for the palace. He was polite and friendly and wished him good night.

* * *

Rook frowned at the light spilling through the door and entered the suite warily. He had not been issued any weapons... except for his fangs. Of course.

He drew back again, shell-shocked.

"Mr Rook!" Alan’s face lit up as he rose from the chair. "I _knew_ you'd be the one to recruit me!"

His appearance momentarily threw Rook back to his corner at the archive. He was clean-shaven and they had gone as far as to give him a brand new grey suit. But that was where the illusion came apart. Alan went from feverishness to a vacant stare of a recent torture victim trapped in his own world.

Blood accounted for seven percent of the human body weight and Alan’s scrawny form promised less than the average one point three gallons. Rook felt a stab of guilt and then thought that it would be an act of mercy.

He said in a clipped tone, “No, Alan, I'm not here to recruit you.” 

His eyes went black and from then on his legs would only carry him forward. He was merely a spectator, separated by a one-way glass from the gruesome scene. He seized Alan by the throat and pushed him up against the wall.

Alan shouted, "Invisibility spell!" Alan’s fear was intoxicating. He hadn’t known it wasn’t only about the blood. But he could also smell the insanity on him coming off in waves.

He turned away. “Never in my life have I played a computer game, Alan, but I assure you...” He glanced at his former subordinate, who shrunk under his gaze. “...that the monster can see you. And you don’t want to be seen by monsters, Alan.”

"Timestop," Alan whispered pitifully. 

Rook froze. An ingratiating voice inside his head suggested that he had always found Alan dim-witted and irritating as fuck. 

Alan gave him a hopeful look. 

Rook’s lips twitched into a lopsided smirk before he bared his fangs. “Yes, I shall indeed stop your time for you.” Anemic or not, the taste was divine.

Alan’s further pleas and shouts only served to make Rook more vicious. He couldn’t get enough of it. He drained Alan dry before finally releasing him and letting him sink to the floor like a rag-doll. 

As he circled the room giddily, his body tingling from the aftershocks of the blood rush, he became aware of a pressing discomfort and lowered his eyes. “My goodness!” He made an undignified noise, retreating into the bathroom.

He sat at the edge of the tub. He knew he should be appalled at what he had done to Alan. He should be burning up with self-loathing. He should break-off a chair leg - how very chivalrous of Yorke to trust him with that now - and end this before he killed more people. Instead he was appalled at the state he was in.

There was a polite knock on the door. “Do I need to have all furniture replaced with the plastic one again or have you finally seen the light?” 

At first, Rook couldn't even find his voice. Then he said, “Give me a moment, please.” 

He darted towards the sink and made the mistake of looking into the mirror. It was empty, of course. Dominic Rook no longer existed. _He_ was a monster wearing Rook's skin. 

He splashed some water into his face. His condition showed no signs of waning.

Yorke equated a "moment" to a minute, and when precisely sixty seconds passed, he pulled the door open and came in. “Console yourself with the fact that he was extremely annoying and you did the world a favour.”

Rook was in the middle of another staring contest with the front of his trousers, the latter winning by a broad margin. He glanced at Yorke like a schoolboy caught in the act. His skin felt too hot.

Yorke came closer, deliberately reducing the space between them until there was little of it left. “It's amazing how much one can get used to, isn't it? Bloodshed included.”

Rook glared at him contemptuously, and snarled: “You brought this upon yourself, Yorke!” 

He grabbed the man by the lapels of his jacket and slammed him against the door, biting his neck. It was like drinking dirty water and he would spit it out but it clung to his tongue. He was spiralling out of any semblance of control, as if possessed.

“You staged this for your own amusement,” Rook spat out. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t rip out your neck.”

“I’ve got two.” Yorke trailed his hand down Rook's abdomen and cupped him through the trousers. 

Rook's experiences with other men had never gone further than furtive tossing off that absolutely hadn’t happened. It didn't seem to matter either way to whatever was steering the wheel. He bit at Yorke's lower lip, sucking in the blood, and pushed against that hand.

Yorke bit back and squeezed harder. Rook moaned into Yorke's mouth brokenly, the intensity of his release closer to pain than pleasure. He grew still as the sensations subsided, and eventually pulled away. 

He had never known the true depths of disgust before this night. “It's a shame. I really liked this suit.” He climbed into the bathtub and huddled there, drawing up his knees.

Yorke perched himself on the edge and reasoned, “You've got five more in the wardrobe and they're all the identical.”

Rook nodded on autopilot. “Good point.” His gaze was drawn to Yorke's thigh. It was giving him ideas. He did not want any ideas involving Yorke's assorted body parts, except chopping him into tiny pieces.

Yorke tilted up Rook's chin with his fingers, making Rook meet his eyes. “What is it that really bothers you, Dominic? I take it it's not the... what's-his-name in the bedroom.”

He shivered. “This isn't me. I wouldn't... have done any of these things.” There were unshed tears in his eyes. “I used to protect people from the monsters and now I’m one of them!”

Yorke chuckled. “Drop the act, you are not nearly that naive.” He leaned closer to him. “The things you've done, the things you were prepared to do, without a second thought, just because they benefited your cause? Stop deceiving yourself. You have _always_ been a monster.”

Rook flinched away from Yorke and hit his head on the tiles. “It didn't matter what I was, what I had to become, so long as I served the cause!” That was the long and the short of it and the story of his life. “There were no depths I wouldn't sink to, for _them_. But _this_?” He gestured around helplessly. “All of this is because I did something for me, because I’ve been a coward, and it's ignoble!”

“Well, if anything, you were not a coward but an honest man. We played for you death, and you lost. Though it's in the eye of the beholder of course. I personally view it as your gain.” Yorke reached out and traced the veins on Rook's wrist with his finger. “Doesn't it feel good just to be alive? Stop _thinking_. Stop trying to rationalize and repent."

Rook whispered, “It does. Oh, but it does.” He thought they'd been playing mind games before but in truth it had only been a prelude. “Christ.” 

He had never been seduced by anything but higher ideals. He had always believed in all things pure and purifying but there was none of that in this new world. Death and decay were hard-wired into his new DNA. “It feels good as long as the blood rush lasts.”

Yorke stroked the veins on the back of Rook's hand and murmured suggestively, “Then don't stop drinking.” He pulled away. “You're a believer, I take it? You said a prayer back when we came to detain you, but I wasn't sure if you meant it. Most people don't.”

Rook let out a jagged laugh, then murmured, “I never had the time to go to church. Not even on Sundays.”

“What do you think I did to you, Dominic? I can't create people from scratch. Who you are now is who you've always been.”

Rook admitted, “I do not know what exactly separates a human and a vampire from an existential point of view - except for a death and their maker's blood, of course.” It felt like another defeat. “We never succeeded in isolating the preternatural element from the purely biological metamorphosis. I know I have a soul - or used to. I don't know what is in my blood and what is in my mind and where the line between the two lies.”

“You will remember in time everything that made you what you were. Feelings, thoughts, decisions. Everything will be as natural to you as it always was. But if you deny yourself blood, _then_ you will suffer. Then you will be a monster unable to control yourself.”

He stared at Yorke in shock. “ _Oh_.” 

He’d seen it all before: vampire blood banks turned slaughterhouses. What had made him think he was any different? 

He sighed. “You have tried, I take it. Going dry, that is.”

Yorke said curtly, “I am five hundred and twenty years old. What do you think?”

Rook's attention already latched onto something else. “We were developing various means of acquiring the blood consensually. Without turning humans into cattle, which is what’s happening right now.” He glanced at Yorke sharply. “The vampire society, even now, is by no means a self-sustaining mechanism. How long before the precarious equilibrium shatters? How long before the humankind goes extinct under such _extreme_ conditions? I could calculate that for you and you wouldn’t like the results.”

Yorke frowned. “If you did that, then surely you must understand the dangers of abstinence in general. Tell me: how do you distinguish between those who are worthy of your help and those who merit immediate staking?” His voice was laced with sarcasm.

“We'd never staked anyone on sight before the war broke out.” Rook leaned forward, grasping Yorke's hand. “I realise now that I’ve committed a grave error. Please consider what I said in the light of the current situation. There has been too much chaos already.”

Yorke offered him a small smile. “I will.”

He squeezed Yorke’s hand. “Thank you. You must be thinking that the rest of the Old Ones wouldn't be swayed into anything they hadn't personally sanctioned - but your hands are free in the home territories and over the years the difference would become staggering. I shall concentrate on the damage control.”

Yorke’s eyes glinted with amusement. “I don't give a damn about the Old Ones, Dominic, I am second to none, especially here.” He rose. “Do what you think you have to do.”

He was taken aback by the calm dismissal. How deep exactly did Yorke’s disinterest in the matters of the state run? Oh, but they were having that conversation in a bathroom, right after... “I apologise. I got carried away.”

Yorke’s smile grew wider. “I understand. It's always good to hear fresh ideas. Creative thinking is one of the reasons I wanted you for this job.” He stroked the tender patch of skin between Rook's thumb and index finger lightly.

Rook's skin prickled with goosebumps. He said carefully, “I think I should change my clothes. And then I should do something about... the body.”

Yorke gave him an innocent look. “What body?”

He flinched. “Alan's body. In the room.” His wits were deserting him again.

Yorke pulled his hand free, opened the door and looked out. “I don't see any body.” He smiled at Rook. “Except yours and mine obviously.” 

“Um.” He blinked. “Very impressive. Scratch out the body part, then.” He shook his head and strode towards the wardrobe like it held all the answers in the universe.

“I'm glad we've worked out all the ethical problems here. And I hope Alan didn't taste too bad.” Yorke winked at him and headed to the door.

“Have a good night.” He felt sick. He wanted to scream, to expel that blood out of his system, to wash it off his hands. But he couldn't indulge in yet another meltdown in front of Yorke.

“It's actually noon, Dominic. Have a nice week-end.”

To him it seemed more like the world's end at its finest. He removed his suit and took his customary screaming shower. Afterwards, he climbed into the bed and slept in fits and starts, plagued by nightmares. 

He was in the dining room. His father’s chair at the head of the table was vacant and the food was untouched. His mother wore her favourite polka dot apron - she would always ask him to tie it for her. She stood in the kitchen doorway, holding spotlessly clean plates, like a postcard image. The guests were the people he had killed, in the precise states he’d left them: shot, stabbed, burned, _bitten_. They raised their glasses to his health. Alan’s was filled with the blood dribbling from his neck.

The pillow and the bed sheets were drenched in sweat. He didn’t know if he was suffering from the physiological effects following heavy blood consumption or a psychosomatic response to it. He thought back to his hangover experiences and made himself get up and search for aspirin. He’d usually taken two pills with a full glass of water.

He opened the medicine cabinet: sterile and empty, save for the bandages. He soaked one in cold water and pressed it to his temples, the back of his neck and then to his forehead, bringing a slight relief to the dull headache.

He faced the mirror. Without light, there would be no sight. Everything that could be seen was seen only when the light from that object traveled to the eye, whether it was a luminous object (that generated light of its own) or an illuminated object (that reflected the light that was incident upon it). 

From the physics point of view, the absence of his reflection could be attributed to something in him somehow affecting the light - changing the type of the wave, the wavelength or other parametres - or faulted on his eyes. But if the latter were the case, other creatures might have potentially been able to see vampire reflections.

Thus, the question the mirror posed to him was: what quality in him distorted the light?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** : _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Quote by Arthur C. Clarke.  
>  **A/N** : It goes from witnessing God to sex... or maybe vice versa.

Rook received an innocuous memory stick from Yorke in the evening. There was no note attached to it, nothing that would give a clue as to the contents. He inserted it into his laptop, expecting some work-related files. Computer pranks weren’t Yorke’s style.

“What on Earth-!” He overturned the chair in his haste to get away from the screen. 

He screwed his eyes shut, concentrating on dispelling the images from his mind, but it was no use. He approached the laptop as though it were a ticking time bomb and gingerly put his hand on the lid. His eyes darted to the video again and anger mixed with shame mixed with stirrings of arousal washed over him like a tidal wave.

“Fuck.” He never swore. “ _Fuck_.” 

He had spent the day elaborating on his earlier proposals but, apparently, the nice week-end was over before the due time. Yorke was back to spinning revolver chambers and nasty shocks, such as this recording of Alan’s death. He snapped the laptop shut furiously. 

Then he took off his shoes and tiptoed his way around the room, careful not to make a sound. He located the first bug exactly where he had expected it to be. His hand hovered on the brink of tearing the cable out. He leaned into it instead, and said in an undertone, “Party like it's 1984, is it? I know the appeal.” 

He withdrew to straighten out the chair. His phone rang and he answered it with an amiable, “Good evening.”

Yorke murmured, “You didn't really think I'd leave my own new recruit without supervision, did you?” 

“Of course not. It would be imprudent.” 

And yet he had failed to consider the possibility because he hadn’t been thinking like a vampire.

“I see you liked my present.” Yorke sounded deliberately teasing and innocent at the same time, as if it was really just a souvenir.

Rook knitted his brow in confusion, and opted for saying, “I am not entirely _au fait_ with the etiquette: I didn't realise it was a present.”

“It's not part of any protocol, just my initiative. I thought that, with your scientific inclinations...” Yorke uttered the last two words in a drawl “...you might find it interesting. _Know thyself_ , and you might know the whole race better.”

Rook exhaled loudly. “In that case, the video has been... enlightening.” 

Bloody Yorke - now Rook _knew_ that he would rewatch it.

“I'm glad to hear that.”

He paused, just brushing his finger pads over the receiver. “You must have had a look at the materials from the archive by now.” He had to discover what Yorke was going to do with them.

“Oh yes, though I haven't had the chance to go through all of it. I must commend your dexterity, Dominic. The collection is incredibly comprehensive, not to mention all the cases you have worked on.” Yorke paused. “How on earth did you manage not to clash with our clean-up teams?”

“It was all in the timing, although some believed it was due to 'invisibility spells.” He suppressed a tiny guilty wince. “If you ever happen to require any sort of commentary... well, it would be my pleasure to assist you, my lord.” He couldn't bring himself to use the man's first name.

“I'm sure that I shall take you...” Yorke trailed off, rearranging some utensils on the desk judging by the sounds, as if lost in thought “..up on your offer as soon I have the time.”

He twisted the phone cord around his hand. “Splendid.”

He didn’t use to be even remotely as reactive. If he was in the vampire equivalent of puberty, God help him. 

“I shan't take any more of your time tonight. I know the week-end is a workaholic's worst enemy, but I trust you'll muddle through somehow.” Yorke sounded teasing again. “See you soon, Dominic.”

“Likewise.” He hung up and glanced down in humiliation.

* * *

On Thursday, Yorke left for Paris, ostensibly on Mr Snow’s summons. Saturday evening found Rook in his office - certain things never changed, reflection or no reflection.

Cutler peeked in with a jovial, “What’s up, Rookie?”

Rook didn’t look up from his paperwork. “I really would rather your visits were work-related, Mr Cutler.” 

Cutler’s presence had not become any more tolerable in the interim, even if he could be an eligible source of information on their common denominator. 

“And the name is Rook, one syllable.” 

"I bet _he_ calls you..." Cutler simulated their maker’s drawl with startling accuracy: " _Dominic_."

Rook slammed the papers against the desk. “What do you want?”

Cutler sauntered closer, ignoring the question. "I suppose you didn't know that bloke too well, did you?"

He walked his fingers along the desk’s edge and Rook moved the folders and the stationary out of the way, watching him icily. 

He had tried to warn Rook, during their first tête-à-tête. Why? Or had he known Rook wouldn’t heed that warning? Had he been in on it from the start?

Cutler cleared his throat. "Anyway, I can see you're in Phase 3 already. A real prodigy." 

Rook frowned. “Excuse me?” 

Cutler gave him a look of mixed pity and that other, unreadable emotion he had been displaying. "Well, the sex'll be great, is all I'm saying. It's the rest of it that'll be the problem.” 

Rook was still processing that statement as Cutler continued: “Hal's having his magnificent tea party with you-know-who. So I was wondering..." He held up a whiskey bottle he had been hiding in his briefcase. “How many of these do you need to get plastered?” 

Rook said over the onset of headache, “I haven’t got the faintest idea.”

"There’s only one way to find out." Cutler winked.

By the end of the bottle Rook found the wherewithal to inquire if such _intimate_ acquaintanceship between makers and recruits was a custom or an idiosyncrasy. 

Cutler didn’t give him a direct answer. In an alarmingly blunt tone, he offered to suck him off instead, a sly twinkle in his eye - straight from Yorke’s repertoire. 

Rook stared at him. Cutler seemed to have taken a keen interest in goading him - when he wished nothing more than to be left alone. He insisted that it was out of the question. 

Cutler leered. "You're cute when you're flustered. Makes you look less like someone’s creepy uncle."

Rook replied in an ingratiating voice, his fingers twitching around another pen: “ _You_ are a public sanity hazard, Mr Cutler.” 

“Honestly, children, can't leave you alone for a minute.” Yorke was standing in the doorway.

Rook inadvertently imagined how this could have gone if he had _accepted_. Not that he would have. Yorke's opening line would probably have been the same. 

Cutler grinned like a cat that ate the canary. "What? We're just having a friendly chat." He filled a third glass.

“Oh, Nick, I'd be touched if I really believed you expected me.” Yorke sauntered up to the table and took the glass. “There is someone missing at this family picnic, but I suppose some of us do have to work. Cheers, gentlemen.” He drank up.

Cutler frowned. "Didn't you like the new poster? I thought it was rather stylish, if I do say so myself." 

Rook put down his drink, his look spelling: ‘Did you mean garish?’

“What new poster? Cutler, I was out of the country, for heaven's sake.” Yorke sat down on the desk.

Cutler’s confident tone slipped. "I'll show you on Monday, then. It's... red. But the fashionable kind of red." 

Rook studied them silently, trying to verify Cutler's claims as to the nature of their relationship. For all Rook knew, he could have been lying but their body language indicated sufficient familiarity. It opened yet another can of worms.

“I'm already impressed.” Yorke sounded anything but. “How's your Sunday, Dominic? Free?” He asked that without turning to him.

Cutler had the audacity to give Rook the thumbs up, although his eyes burned with jealousy. That was what the emotion was. Jealousy.

Rook cleared his throat, severely uncomfortable with the situation. “Yes, it's free.”

Yorke looked at him over his shoulder. “Great. I'm holding you to your word then.” He hopped off the table and headed to the door. “Night, gentlemen. I am going to...” He made an enigmatic pause and then said, “Sleep. And if anyone delivers me a report on agriculture on the following several days, I will have them chopped to pieces and used as fertilizer. Pass that message along, will you?” He left.

Cutler laughed. Rook stared at him. Cutler whispered conspiratorially, "How about I bribe you to replace Fergus' weekly report with a report on agriculture, Mr Home Secretary?" 

Rook said, “Hmm. Let me think about it.” 

Cutler watched him expectantly. 

“No.”

Cutler sighed. "Never works." He stood up. "Nighty-night." He made it look like he was following after his maker. 

Rook massaged his temples wearily.

* * *

The next day Yorke sent Rook a text message telling him to come to the library. It was currently used as the archive storage both for vampire relics and confiscated materials. 

In a spur-of-the-moment decision, Rook donned more casual clothes than usual. His shirt was blue and his trousers were mid grey. He wore neither a tie nor a vest. It brought back memories of undercover operations - this one might just have gone too far.

He looked around and started walking past the shelves. Yorke was sprawled in an antique library chair. He wasn't wearing a suit this time either, but rather a pair of jeans and some old-fashioned cross between a shirt and a t-shirt. He was trying to hit the archivist’s head with a tennis ball that kept flying past it and bouncing off the wall.

Rook blinked at the tableau. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He inclined his head at Yorke but included Regus into the greeting.

Yorke waved at him lazily. 

Regus rose. "This would be my unpaid replacement then?" 

Yorke laughed. “Would you rather I found you a paid replacement, Regus? I didn't know people had to be paid to spend time with me.” He grinned at Rook. “What would you say, Dominic? Do you want money?” 

Regus grumbled, "So not what I meant..."

“The pleasure of your company would be quite enough,” Rook answered sardonically.

Yorke made a face at Regus that spelled: ‘See?’

Regus rolled his eyes. "I'll be at the pharmacy, buying a new inhaler, if you need me." He walked past Rook and muttered, "The _pleasure_ is all yours." 

Yorke laughed, then looked at Rook. “I can't help it. He makes it too easy.”

Rook smiled noncommittally and gravitated to the familiar boxes sitting on Regus' desk, picking up the tennis ball on his way and finding it a more suitable place. He glanced at Yorke, waiting for further instructions.

Yorke rose gracefully and strolled up to him. He positioned himself on the desk next to the boxes and said, “Well, go ahead. Provide commentary.”

Rook nodded. “These seem to be the case files. Ordinary attacks... Oh, the Box Tunnel Twenty Massacre.” How on earth did these folders end up here?

“Mm... John Mitchell, was it? I knew his maker. Never liked him. Heard he died... twice.” Without any warning, Yorke leaned closer and slid his hand into Rook's trouser pocket. He fished out the pack of cigarettes nonchalantly and opened it.

He shivered at the contact. Smoking in a library? “Hmm, you know the story, then.” Probably better than Rook himself. “And here's John Mitchell’s recruit, a brutally murdered twelve-year-old boy. Before we could take him into custody, he fled Bristol with his mother. He continued recruiting sick children until they collectively fed on the mother, still human at that point.”

“Let me guess: in this fairy tale, the children are the demons and the mother is the victim. According to you at least.” Yorke lit a cigarette and offered it to him.

Rook gave him a sidelong look and shook his head. “The mother made her decision when she accepted the vampire child as her own son. The rest is history.” He moved onto a second box. “Oh. This is interesting. We unofficially... assisted an institution seeking a cure for lycanthropy.”

“You do know that's impossible, right?’ Yorke laughed. “Oh, please don't tell me you may have been looking for a cure for vampirism as well!”

Rook glared at him. “You sound so certain. _Magic is just science that we don't understand yet_. The same applies to the preternatural.”

“No. Sorry, but no. Magic is magic and science is science. I've seen both, and if you mix them... well, to quote a classic American film: _shit happens_.”

Rook winced. “While I'll be the first one to admit that those experiments were a disaster, may I ask what exactly you’ve seen?”

“Uh... let's say I once took part in a certain ritual that went a bit... wrong. That taught me not to take part in any rituals ever.”

Rook's eyes widened and he studied Yorke's face curiously. “Well. Despite calling ourselves 'magicians', we hadn't actually dabbled in magic since early 20th century.”

“Good for you. Little piece of advice: if you happen to take a shine to a woman who thinks it's a great idea to summon some dark forces, find another way to get into her knickers.” Yorke exhaled some smoke. “Or at least check if there are any virgins present during the ritual.”

Rook said warily, “That sounded rather extreme. And necromantic, if I may add.” He paused. “There used to be a running joke in the department about a talking skull. Everyone would say they'd seen it before it was transferred to another location.”

“Did it actually exist?”

Rook snorted. “Nobody knows.” He personally hadn't seen it. “Do the dark forces actually exist? Besides those present and accounted for?”

“Yes.” Yorke smiled like they were discussing a new brand of ice cream or their colleagues' children.

He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “But...” His voice faltered. “Darkness cannot exist without light.”

Yorke said in a less frivolous tone, “If by ‘light’ you mean God, I can assure you I've never met him. Which doesn't prove anything of course.”

Rook looked away. Why would God want to meet any of them? 

“Someone or something must lend power to the religious paraphernalia, or how else would it repel vampires?”

Yorke laughed. “Dominic, Dominic.” He rose to his feet and circled around Rook. “You give me entirely too much credit.” He frowned, and Yorke continued with no small amount of malicious delight, “If _God_ personally powered your cross, how would I have overcome it unless I was his equal?” Yorke leaned into him, waiting for his reply.

Rook drew away. “It wasn’t my intention to imply anything of the sort.” He changed the subject: “You also sounded as though you'd met the devil.” He gave in and lit a cigarette for himself.

Yorke said flippantly, perching himself on the desk again, “Perhaps I have. I most certainly have been called one. I find it flattering.”

Rook fell silent, taking a long pull and exhaling smoke, and Yorke watched him placidly.

He returned his attention to the files. “Type 1 - ghosts - had proved to be the most elusive subjects. We trained to attune our senses to their presence but even after years in the field I could barely tell a difference. Take dealing with malevolent spirits: to exorcise them, one needs an open death door and a qualified exorcist. How are we to proceed? Bide our time until someone else dies there?”

Yorke’s cigarette was long gone - he took Rook's wrist, brought his hand with the cigarette up to his mouth, took a pull on it and let go. “That, or you kill somebody to make a door, which is faster.”

Rook stared at him, every muscle in his body tensing. “Indeed.” A homeless person no one would look for. An illegal immigrant. An elderly neighbour. There had always been an acceptable candidate.

“But you wouldn't do that, would you? At least not every time. Only _now_ you ask yourself why. There's one bulletproof argument in favour of being a villain, Mr Rook.” Yorke leaned closer and murmured, “Less room for cock-ups. Even if you have them, it's usually what everybody expects.”

Rook's gaze shifted from Yorke's lips to his eyes. “Do me a favour, my lord: never make me do the laugh. Or grow a goatee.”

Yorke started, then smiled and said conspiratorially, “I shall make every effort to resist the temptation.”

Rook smiled too, feeling a tad awkward. He turned back to the boxes. “We have also been studying the differences between the human and the vampire DNA. I’ve been unable to locate the data here, unfortunately.”

“What about personal profiles?” Yorke got off the table and went over to other boxes. “Have you got anything on us? On me, for instance?” He looked back at Rook. “I'd be only too happy to correct all the errors.”

“Oh, of course.” Rook followed him and unearthed a thick folder, blowing the dust off it. “I shall summarise it to you and you will comment if you like. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like fun.” Apparently one of Yorke’s many ideas of fun was to point out other people's mistakes. He appraised the size of the folder. “Looks detailed.”

“Not as detailed as we would have liked it to be.” Rook started from the beginning, in a slow, equanimous voice. “You are an Englishman, of... humble origins. You first appear on our radar circa mid sixteenth century - you can imagine why. Your assorted military careers, incomplete.” He pointed at the entries on the timeline. “Associated incidents. The rise through the vampire ranks. Eighteenth century, already an Old One. Your disappearances off the grid seem to follow a cyclical pattern.”

“So far so good.”

He nodded, the compliment tugging at his professional pride - but pride was another mortal sin. He moved onto the 20th century. “According to our sources, you have taken part in the First World War but not in World War II - why is that? World War II had been something of a vampire hot spot, if you don't mind me saying so.”

Yorke shrugged. “I got bored of wars. We chose to sit this one out, Fergus, a couple of other lads and I. I don't actually know anyone who fought. Except for some fanatics who believed that the Nazis could do black magic.”

Rook snorted knowingly. “Wasn't an Old One named Ivan an acquaintance of yours? Or John Mitchell's maker, Herrick? Speaking of, perhaps you could enlighten me as to the Old Ones' stay in Bolivia: wasn't the climate a tad... stifling?”

“So many questions.” Yorke smiled. “Such an inquisitive mind. How about you answer mine after I answer yours?”

Rook blinked. “That seems fair, yes.”

Yorke leaned against one of the desks, folding his arms over his chest. 

“Ivan was one of my best mates. He was in London during the Blitz but he didn't fight in the war. He was... sort of a tourist. He enjoyed visiting hot spots. I knew Herrick but I despised him. I might have met Mitchell too, but I don't remember. If I did, he would be out of the spotlight at that time. Herrick's entire line is rotten. I heard he tried some kind of a takeover in Bristol and was torn apart by a werewolf. Then he came back and was staked. A fitting end, I'd say. How's that for blending magic with science?” Yorke chuckled. “I've never been to Bolivia and I have no desire to go there but I could ask Mr Snow the next time I see him why he chose it.”

Rook listened to him attentively, concealing his surprise well this time. “I see. Thank you. We had no information on Herrick's demise or the fact that such a thing as a vampire coming back was possible at all. I assume it was because he hadn't been staked the first time? And, no, I wouldn't burden you with making inquiries to Mr Snow.”

“Herrick was a very far-sighted fellow. I have no idea how he laid his hands on such arcane knowledge. The trick to long life, Dominic, is to always have someone ready to bleed for you. Herrick did.”

Rook found it impressive, on a clinical level. He commented, “Well, your recruits seem very... _devoted_ to you.”

Yorke said in amusement, “Not all of them.”

Rook took that as a dig at himself. “As much as could be expected, I suppose.” 

He waited for Yorke's question with some trepidation and Yorke kept him waiting for a few minutes, just poking around some old boxes, then asked without looking up: 

“How did you get this job? How do people get such jobs? Do they just wake up one day and go all: Mummy, I want to be a shadowy figure in the government of dubious moral qualities?”

Rook lied: “The Permanent Secretary approached me when I was in the army. I hadn't had any encounters with the preternatural before that.” 

He studied Yorke’s face and relaxed a fraction when he became certain that Yorke believed him.

Yorke knitted his eyebrows. “You look so... relieved. What did you _think_ I would ask about, pray tell?”

Rook let out a strained chuckle. “I imagined some sort of an uncomfortable question.” 

“Oh dear, and here I was hoping this was uncomfortable.” Yorke sounded playful.

Rook affected a smile. “Then it was _dreadfully_ uncomfortable.”

“No need to indulge me, I don't play at giveaway.” Yorke fished another folder and opened it. “Oh. I've been wondering what had happened to this one.” He dropped the folder on the floor and took out some more. They all followed the first one. “Dead, dead, also dead. The new generations view us as magical creatures, perhaps a whole other species. But the secret to being an Old One is... simply to stay alive long enough.” He looked up and chuckled.

Rook's fingers twitched reflexively. “They may be dead but they still exist as... data. Unless you choose to destroy it, of course.”

“I am neither heartless nor sentimental enough to do that.” Yorke stepped over the pile of folders.

Rook bent down to pick the folders up and stacked them back into the box neatly. He cared for the data, not the faces. Vampires didn't get memorial services.

He mused, “‘Speaking of staying alive, near immunity to diseases and prolonged lifespan, why, perhaps there _are_ grounds to call that evolution.”

“So you're finally coming around?” Yorke moved closer. “Strictly speaking, none of us asked for it. If anyone tries to tell you it was their choice, they're lying.”

Rook said in a guarded manner, “I am merely weighing my prejudices and beliefs against my new environment.” He met Yorke's eyes. “None of us asked for being born either. The fact doesn't absolve us of all responsibility.”

“Of course not. But the vampires have existed for three thousand years. In my book, that's long enough to stop being considered an unfortunate anomaly. You give all the priviledge to humans - and on what basis? We are addicts and murderers that have evolved from other addicts and murderers. And yet, you wasted your entire life on trying to protect _them_ from _us_.”

Rook faced him, deceptively calm. “Be that as it may, put an average vampire and an average human into the same room, unprepared, and it's invariably the vampire who survives. Or compare the percentage of murderers and addicts among the human population to, well, one hundred percent. I think it's obvious which race is more _dangerous_ \- even having in mind the witch hunts you brought up before. We had a reason to protect one side and not the other.”

“Or perhaps you just wanted some bonus points for when you died and went to heaven.” Yorke scoffed. “I like your idea of finding balance. But notice how you only came up with it when the situation changed so radically both for you and for humanity in general. There are simply too many of us to go out in the streets with a good old stake now. _Now_ you want to negotiate. _Now_ you think of us as people instead of animals.”

“Now that you have fallen back to personal gibes, I’ll admit that if I still had been of the mindset to consider us mindless animals, I would have staked myself by now.” Rook's hostility subsided. “I’m glad that you like the idea.”

Yorke laughed flippantly. “Don't do that. I need a civilized conversation partner and I've already grown accustomed to having you at my disposal.” He stepped away, picked up the tennis ball and headed towards the exit. “You can play around here, but it's Regus' sandbox, so do try not to mess up his artistic disorder. Thank you for being so informative today. We should do it again sometime.”

“Certainly.” Rook's smile was almost genuine this time. He watched Yorke go and went back to the boxes but found himself distracted by the oddest details: not the memory of Yorke's words in themselves but the rich texture of his voice and the way his lips moved around the vowels. 

Rook accidentally crumpled a piece of paper. He decided he needed a cuppa, and that gave him a pause. He had been drinking tea after his recruitment without noticing any difference and he had entirely forgotten about human food, much like he used to forget about his lunches.

For once, he lost track of time. Hours later, he borrowed some books and finally headed back to his suite. 

As he stepped into the opulent foyer, he heard a brazen outcry even before he caught a glimpse of the obscene act unfolding on the staircase. He clutched the books to his chest, a volatile reaction not unlike what he had experienced at the video swiftly replacing his initial shock.

Yorke sank his teeth into Cutler’s shoulder; Cutler’s shirt hung down his arms and his trousers pooled around his ankles, while Yorke’s clothes were only slightly rumpled. Cutler laughed breathlessly, catching Yorke’s forearm and exposing his wrist. Yorke did love to put on a show - and so did Cutler, apparently.

Rook backed away but found himself unable to stop watching. If either of them turned around… but no, they were too absorbed in the act. The railing rattled under Cutler's grip. Yorke groaned and bit Cutler again, clenching his fingers around him. He made Cutler turn his head and captured his mouth in a rough kiss, drowning the moan he made as he finished. The palace truly had wonderful acoustics.

Rook clenched his jaws hard. Yorke whispered something into Cutler's ear and nipped at his earlobe, Cutler smirking and murmuring a reply.

Yorke laughed. “Greedy, aren't we?” He pulled away, adjusting his clothes. “I expect this palace to stand for centuries to come. You know how much I hate moving.”

Cutler tugged up his trousers and leaned into him. “We could always go someplace... sturdier.”

Yorke imitated a strenuous thinking activity, then grasped the front of Cutler's shirt and dragged him upstairs.

Rook lingered on the spot after they were gone, the images burned onto his retinas. He walked over to the railing and ran his hand along the wooden top, which seemed shaky. It had weathered times and tides but not Yorke's depravity.

In his suite, he unpacked a cloth-wrapped tome and hissed in pain as he tried to open it. He read from it until his vision blurred completely.

He put it away. He had been drinking, irregularly, bottled blood. He had been an accessory to each and every murder that went on out of his sight. And murder was the most straightforward item in the programme. God might have never wanted him but he couldn't live without faith. In _something_.

To bring the country into balance he first needed to learn to balance his own life - a truth he had grasped only after becoming an addict.

* * *

Unfortunately, nothing stopped for the sake of his existential crisis. A few nights later Yorke sent him an invitation to dinner, without revealing anything more specific.

He had an onslaught of anxiety, flashing back to the witnessed scene. He spent a quarter-hour carefully putting himself back together. He wore his usual grey suit, both an armour against Yorke and a cage to keep his own inner demons in. As they said, if you sup with the devil, use a long spoon.

It turned out that the dinner wasn't for two. A few other vampires were present: Cutler, Jacob, Italy-bound as he often was, and another Old One, Hetty. She eyed Rook suspiciously as he came in. He offered her a polite smile and took his seat to Yorke's right. 

No sooner had he removed the napkin from his plate, he inadvertently caught Cutler's smug look. Rook was the first to break the eye contact, suddenly finding his empty glass fascinating. He could practically hear Cutler's smirk from across the table and couldn't fathom why he let it affect him to this extent. Cutler was the one who should feel ashamed; he should feel _cheap_.

And Rook shouldn’t be imagining sinking his new set of teeth into Cutler’s throat - anyone’s throat, for that matter.

Dinner was served in a very regal style. The conversation remained civil and fluctuated between matters of politics (though nothing of the human resistance) and Jacob's upcoming departure.

Hetty kept drilling Rook with a hard look and finally asked, “So. How's the great experiment going? Seen all you wanted or do you need a bigger microscope?”

The conversation swiftly wound down and everyone's looks were on him. He didn't bat an eyelash. “I'm afraid that is no longer a part of my job description.”

“Yeah, sure, and cows can fly.” Hetty turned to Yorke. “Sweetie, you've got smokes, haven't you?” He gave her a cigarette and she continued, “What is your job exactly?”

Rook said levelly, “Home Secretary.”

She snorted. “Don't you mean _Hal's_ Secretary?”

Rook blinked. “If you like.”

“Doesn't matter what I like as long as Hal's happy, right?” She winked at him. 

Jacob murmured, "Somebody's had too much to drink."

Rook plastered on his default smile and didn't comment on that. He cut his food into neat little pieces and ate just enough to fit in, not really tasting it.

When the dinner was over, Yorke wished Jacob a pleasant trip and the guests left. Rook rose as well, but Yorke asked him to stay. 

“I feel like I should apologise for Hetty. She and I have never got along, so rest assured at least half of her malice was directed at me.”

Rook said nonconfrontationally, “Quite alright, it was no bother.” He loathed petty squabbles.

“Hetty likes to put on airs. She is after all over four hundred years old. But mentally, she's still a child. I'm not sure anything could be done about that.” Yorke gestured for him to sit down and pointed at the small table with various bottles of alcohol. “Pick your poison.”

 _All_ vampires were blood-crazed children. He looked over the bottles. “I’ll have to defer to your judgement on these.”

Yorke chose red wine and handed him the glass. “Do you agree with her though? That all of you are here to keep me happy.”

Rook twirled the glass between his fingers. “To an extent, perhaps. Inasmuch as it must be satisfactory to have us perform our roles well.”

“And here I thought she was just bitter because she didn't get a country to play with.” Yorke raised the glass. “To satisfaction then. Shall we?”

“Perhaps she got a kindergarten or a primary school somewhere.” The wine's taste was rich and full bodied. He marvelled at being able to enjoy it.

Yorke laughed. “You have a thing for vampire children, don't you? As in, you can't stand them.”

Rook’s tone darkened, “Perhaps.”

Yorke looked at him curiously .“Why is that if I may ask?” 

His personal unpleasant associations aside, he would have thought it was obvious. Maybe that was why he had trouble putting it into words. 

“It unsettles me in the same way as not finding my reflection in the mirror still does. A child forced into this lifestyle, trapped in a body that wouldn't grow up.”

“So you dislike them because they unnerve you? Or because you feel sorry for them?” Yorke put on a small sardonic smile. “Feeling sorry for monsters must be tough.”

Rook frowned. “I find them unnatural. An ironic choice of word, I know.”

“To be perfectly honest, I agree. I'd personally stake the one who recruited Hetty...” Yorke lowered his voice. “But for the rumour that it was Mr Snow.” He cocked his head slightly. “Anything else you find... _unnatural?_ ”

Well, they had finally agreed on something, in a manner of speaking. He said bluntly, “Same-sex relations. I was raised to believe them a mental illness.”

Yorke blinked and burst out laughing. “I was born in the fifteenth century. Can you imagine what I was raised to believe?” He took a sip of the wine. “Remind me who initiated one bathroom incident some two weeks ago?”

Rook attempted to hide himself behind his wine glass. “That incident was... completely fortuitous. Surely you remember the state I was in.”

“Do you still believe it's a mental illness?” Yorke’s tone turned teasing. “Surely, it can't be any worse than, you know, drinking blood.”

It was a side-effect of drinking blood. It was yet another physical response he couldn’t control, yet another change in his body clouding his mind.

Yorke looked at him with dark, almost hungry eyes. “You haven't answered my question.”

He felt like a cornered animal. He breathed out: “It's madness.” That wasn’t what he had intended to say.

“All human contact is madness. All life is madness. How else would you explain that we are all born with the needs we absolutely must satisfy if we don't want our life to become a nightmare? Your God, Dominic, provided he exists, has a black sense of humour.”

Rook was mesmerised. He leaned away instinctively, closing off. He had no doubts now that people had mistaken Yorke for a devil.

“Tell me: have you tried asking for forgiveness? Praying? I couldn't help noticing a copy of the Bible missing from the library.” Yorke rose and walked towards one of the cabinets. He opened a drawer, took something out, but didn't reveal what it was.

He moved the glass around, not looking at Yorke. “No and yes. I got to the fifth verse.”

Yorke came closer. “And?”

“And I couldn't stand it any longer. Not to say that I've given up,” Rook said listlessly.

Yorke slowly leaned into him. “Why do you persist in your loyalty to a God that clearly doesn't want you anymore? Perhaps he never did, considering how many of his commandments you have broken.”

He inched away until there was nowhere to retreat. “Because faith is an inviolable commitment.”

Yorke raised his hand, showing him a big crucifix - Rook’s crucifix, the one he had tried to use against him in the archive. “Loyalty through the pain. That's something to be admired.”

Rook hissed and gripped the table in sheer stubbornness.

Yorke pressed the edge of the cross to Rook's lips. “But if you don't expect to be forgiven, what's the point? What's the reward for your loyalty?”

His eyes watered as the blisters spread from the point of contact. He whispered, “I never wanted a reward.”

Yorke chuckled. “How noble.” 

He trailed the cross down across Rook's chest and abdomen and stopped at his crotch, pressing lightly, Rook fighting down fresh waves of searing pain mingled with an echo of arousal. It was a losing battle, if he had ever seen one. 

“Looks like you may be mad after all. But then...” Yorke put the cross aside. “We are all mad here.”

Silent tears trickled down Rook’s cheeks and Yorke leaned into him, licking a teardrop off. “I think... if you don't mind me saying... that you need to figure out what it is you want. As opposed to what the world or God want from you.” Yorke's voice came out in a husky, ingratiating whisper.

Rook's gaze refocused and he turned his head towards Yorke, their lips only a hair's breadth apart. “I do not dare ask for forgiveness but of course I yearn for absolution anyway. I need my life under control. But even more I need to know that if I lose control, I won’t lose _myself_.”

Yorke whispered, “The only way to find out is by trial and error.” He didn't move. It was Rook's choice.

There was a decanter within his reach and yet his attention was seized by the man in front of him. Drinking blood was another roulette: which appetite would be slaked, which would rear up and overwhelm him? Was there truly a difference anymore? Hunger and thirst had lost their meaning outside of the red-tinted need that had absorbed them into itself. 

What he was about to attempt felt wrong on a visceral level but he indeed wanted a better lens for his microscope. He could remain a helpless spectator or he could learn how to turn Yorke’s new weapon against him.

He closed his eyes and took Yorke's lower lip between his. It was a tentative, drawn-out contact that tickled his senses rather like a fine wine. He hadn’t fully expected to enjoy it. The beast in him demanded so much more but he couldn't simply leap into it like the last time. His reservations held him fast, their grip tightening before the inevitable downfall.

Yorke responded in the same manner, making it almost gentle. Rook opened his eyes, filing away Yorke's expression - or rather the mask he was wearing for the occasion. Yorke’s gentleness terrified him more than his cruelty - it was an unknown factor.

Yorke cupped the back of Rook's head as he sank on his knees in front of his armchair. He held on to Rook's knee for purchase, leaning into the kiss that was inevitably quickening, flaring up with passion that Rook tried so hard to restrain. He felt Yorke’s fangs against his tongue.

He pulled away for a moment, his eyes widening at the sight of Yorke kneeling between his legs. He dipped back in, his fangs grazing Yorke’s neck. Yorke released a small half-sigh half-moan. 

He loosened Rook's tie and started unbuttoning his shirt, fingers skimming over the dent at the base of his throat. Rook mirrored his actions. Yorke leaned forth and swept his tongue along Rook's throat. 

He was drawing a line of open-mouthed kisses down Rook’s chest when a low rumble rolled through the palace. The walls seemed to tremble. 

Yorke raised his head, irritated. “What the-?” A loud noise followed, and the heavy chandelier came crashing down from the ceiling. Rook darted out of the chair, dragging Yorke with him.

It had sounded like the divine wrath itself. Rook mentally slapped himself. “A bomb.” He let go of Yorke immediately and did up his shirt.

For a moment Yorke looked just as startled as he was. Then he marched up to the phone and dialed internal security. “What the fuck is going on?” He listened. “Christ. How many? No, I'm still... I'm still in the dining-room. I'll leave immediately. Get back to me on this.” He slammed the receiver back down and gestured at Rook to follow. “Blood storage. Fifteen dead. Fergus' men are looking for more explosives now.”

“Goodness gracious!” Rook strode after him, reeling.

“Forgive me but your mates from the resistance, if indeed it is their handiwork, are fucking morons. Depriving my entire staff of blood only means that we shall have to acquire more.” Yorke's eyes flashed black in anger.

Rook would have liked to protest but he couldn’t help sharing the sentiment.

It was raining outside. It cooled Yorke off and he requisitioned Rook's mobile phone and rang up someone who wasn't answering. 

Cutler rounded the corner and walked up to Yorke from behind, tapping him on the back. The phone buzzed in his pocket. “Aww, I'm touched you remembered about me.”

Yorke turned around, his face unreadable. He looked like he could equally hug and stake Cutler. He said with a sarcastic smile: 

“I wouldn't dream of getting rid of you that easily, Nick.”

“That's reassuring.” Cutler grinned at him boyishly, letting some of his relief show, and did hug him.

Yorke stiffened, but touched Cutler’s shoulder briefly, acknowledging the hug. Then he pulled away. 

“I expect full reports on the incident as soon as they're ready.” He was addressing both Cutler and Rook. “Go do your job.” With that, he left them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** : _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.  
>  **A/N** : Now with 90 % more blasphemy.

The matter of the bomb required delicate handling. Its origin was easily traceable - the resistance cell responsible did a poor job of covering their tracks, flaunting their sneaking into Buckingham Palace - and its fallout absolutely had to be controlled. When Rook accepted the job, he had promised himself he would use his position for the good of humanity. It was time to act on his promise. 

The regime was in desperate need of a civilised justice system instead of Fergus' men tearing people apart on sight. Rook interfered, offering a compromise. They had the resistance fighters interrogated and sent to be harvested for blood, thus compensating for at least some of the losses. He made sure they survived the proceedings and, for once, Fergus didn’t sabotage his instructions.

Rook considered the case closed with minimal losses, but he had drastically underestimated Yorke’s foul mood. Yorke was staying in a flat, the location of which nobody seemed to know. He signed a few rather radical decrees that toughened the restrictions in the city, and started working on a project of setting up resettlement camps. Rook’s phone calls, texts and emails had amounted to communicating with a brick wall. 

The future looked grim. 

Those new decrees and a draft of the project were arrayed on Rook’s desk. One bomb was all it had taken to change the man's mind - if his willingness to heed Rook’s advice hadn't been a ruse in the first place. Rook felt at once furious and sapped of his resolve. 

Sending innocents to those camps was that much worse than signing over his own soul. He jolted to his feet and grabbed the papers from his desk and then his coat. In his pocket, there was a note with the address, which had cost him some effort discovering.

He drove the BMW he had been assigned - his own Lexus had long since perished in the riots - and showed up at his maker’s doorstep.

Yorke opened the door and gave him a dark look, without asking how he had found him. “What?”

Rook declared flintily, “I did _not_ sign up to work for the bloody Third Reich.” His eyes gleamed with anger, the facade cracking. “Your new decrees are on an entirely different level of monstrous than harvesting blood. Perhaps you yourself ought to move to a camp if you’re unable to handle the palace.”

He didn’t require an invitation to a flat owned by the vampires but he made no attempt to enter.

Yorke looked at him indulgently. “My decrees are monstrous because _I_ am a monster. I thought you knew.”

“I’ll have none of that talk! You’re acting like a child throwing a temper tantrum.”

“You think I'm throwing a tantrum? What about them, your precious humans?” Yorke chuckled. “Please, Dominic, for the hundredth time, stop lying to yourself! You're not mad because of the decrees. You don't give a fuck about humanity except when your own is under threat. You constructed an image of me that helped you to cope with the change you've been going through, and now you can't accept my true nature. But it's not going to be any different. This _is_ me. I don't take blows lying down. My home was attacked, I retaliated. It's as simple as that.”

Rook's eyes narrowed. “Fifteen against hundreds that will rapidly turn into thousands? This is not retaliation - this is genocide.” He paused. “ _You_ have constructed an image of me as someone hiding behind his ideals because he cannot stomach the ugly truth but that’s not who I am. I cannot abide by your new policies and being a vampire has nothing to do with it. If your true nature is a sadistic reprobate with a concentration camp fixation, I'm resigning right here and now.”

Yorke rubbed his nosebridge wearily. “Oh, for heaven's sake, come in and stop attracting attention. This is supposed to be a secret location.” He dragged Rook inside and slammed the door shut. “Did you even read the bloody project? Where on earth does it say that it's a concentration camp?”

He produced the papers from his briefcase. “Please see the commentary.” He pointed at the highlighted passages and at his own frantic scribblings squeezed in between the lines. “Pardon the handwriting, I haven't had the opportunity to type it up.” He finally took a deep breath to calm himself.

“Dominic, it's a _resettlement_ camp. Which only means humans will be segregated. I know it sounds unpleasant but trust me, I have no intention to send them to gas cameras or crematoriums. The idea is to create close-knit and well-monitored communities, to provide them with jobs and just generally keep them too busy to be making bombs. It will benefit us all.”

“Perhaps I have mixed my historical analogies in my agitated state. I shall try again: death marches. Ethnic cleansing. The Trail Of Tears. Rings any bells? I found not a single mention of hospitals or educational facilities and I'm not even insisting on churches!”

Yorke said tentatively, “Perhaps the proposal does merit revision.”

Rook opened his mouth and snapped it shut, rocking back and forth on his feet with the unspent momentum, scrutinising Yorke. Finally, he regained his composure and said, “I do apologise for bursting in on you like this.”

“I shall take your comments under consideration.” Yorke moved towards the kitchen. “Drink?”

He blurted out: “Yes, please.”

Yorke poured him a glass of whiskey and a glass of blood. “Not feeding again, eh?”

“Oh. I thought I'd forgotten something.” He downed the blood at once, gasping as the relief came over him.

“You do enjoy suffering, my dear Dominic.” Yorke sat down, looking at him with amusement.

“I was busy.” 

After a moment, he removed his coat and folded it over the back of the armchair before sitting down. He took a very small, medicinal sip of the whiskey.

“Too busy to remember you were hungry? You should start a support group for vampires on the wagon. Perhaps we should give you a new department of grey-clad vampires who would be too busy to indulge their bloodlust. The UK would be the safest place on earth.”

He gave him an affronted look. “I really did forget.” He twiddled with his glass. “In my experience, those wagons invariably end in tears.”

“I'm glad you understand that.” Yorke smiled. “I confess I've missed our... conversations.”

Rook blinked, caught off guard. He had seen artifice in men time and again but never this much, never layer upon layer of inspired falsehoods that Yorke presented as genuine facts. He had been mistaken in taking Yorke’s promises to consider his ideas at face value. But in that case he was even more in the dark as to Yorke’s endgame in this.

He played along, though, taking it a step further. “You are a hard man to befriend. Not that I would presume to.”

He hadn’t had any friends since he started working for the Department, except Arthur. He wouldn’t want to get used to it - looking forward to someone's company. He thought he had cut that part out of himself long ago. 

“So I've been told.” Yorke moved the decanter towards him.

Nevertheless, there might be a grain of truth to Yorke's words about the vampire condition: _‘Feelings, thoughts, decisions. Everything will be as natural to you as it always was.’_ Except feelings had never come naturally to Rook and recruitment had obviously skewed the paradigm.

He refilled his glass, his hands almost steady. “I've been told it's frowned upon to always drink from the decanter.” By the ever so helpful Cutler.

Yorke smiled knowingly. “If you suggest we go out and kill somebody, I'm all for it.”

Rook flinched a little. “I know you are. I was merely wondering if my reprieve was temporary.”

Yorke chuckled. “I wasn't going to torture you if that's what you're thinking. I'd much rather see you come round on your own.”

Rook nodded curtly, putting down the empty glass.

Yorke rested his elbows on the table top, leaning forth slightly. “We do have an unfinished dialogue if you remember.”

“Yes, of course. Shall we discuss the corrections?”

Yorke smiled slowly. “You know very well that it's not what I meant.”

“Oh.” He swallowed nervously and then steeled himself. “I don’t think it's a good time for that. It shouldn't influence our decisions regarding the policies.”

“I wasn't going to make any decisions right now.” Yorke shrugged. “You?”

He was constantly making decisions around Yorke, and more often than not poor ones. He shouldn’t have accepted the drink - it always seemed to lead to one thing. It was incredibly exhausting to always teeter on the edge.

Rook stood up, walked over to Yorke's chair and placed his fingers on Yorke’s shirt button.

“I shall wait for your revisions, my lord,” he murmured, and moved to retrieve his coat.

“Fuck that.” Yorke grabbed him by the belt and spun him round, kissing him, impatient, demanding. 

Rook pushed him away firmly. “Sorry, but not like _this_.” Or at all, at this rate.

Yorke arched his eyebrows in surprise, then his eyes darkened like he was about to do something volatile. He stepped aside and poured himself a glass of whiskey, then glanced at Rook. “Don't you have work to do?” 

He readjusted his suit swiftly. “Good night, my lord.” 

Inside his car, he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. He took the stake out of his coat’s breast pocket, staring at it fixedly. He had had one perfect opportunity that might not present itself ever again and he hadn’t used it - on the off chance that Yorke would make the revisions and his efforts hadn’t been in vain.

Was he aiding humanity or was he merely playing the game?

* * *

Hal stoically refrained from doing anything as dramatic as flinging the glass against the wall. He was angry, but he couldn't even say why. He should have expected this. He had let his patience wear thin and he had come on too strong. That was not how the game was played. Now he would either have to scrap the project or - god forbid - apologise.

When the doorbell rang, Hal was prepared to greet the returning Rook with a snippy remark. However, it wasn't Rook on the doorstep. Instead, Hal was met with a snakelike smile of Mr Snow.

"I'm here to see how you're faring," Snow said nonchalantly. "In the aftermath of the bombing."

Hal frowned and finally remembered to step aside and let him in.

“That was two weeks ago.”

"I know." Snow took a seat in one of the armchairs. "Yet you are still here. So it is fair to assume there is a trauma."

Hal poured him a drink. His greatest trauma at the moment was the realisation that his supposedly secret address was not as secret as he had thought.

“Not really. I just don't feel like going back yet.”

"You don't feel like doing your civic duty?"

For some reason, coming from him, it sounded hilarious. Last time they met – in Paris, for tea – Hal had expected a conversation about Rook and the victory over the DoDD or perhaps about the resistance and the War Child. But it had really been _just tea_. Snow had launched discussions on anything from classic Greek dramas to modern agriculture - and none of that had anything to do with the current situation in the UK.

Hal said cautiously:

“I am doing my job. I just feel that at this point it is better if I stay away from the office in case there is another attempt... to, uh...” Hal paused. “You're not here to talk about that. You know I haven't been shirking my responsibilities.”

Snow nodded.

"What about the new Home Secretary?"

“He is also doing his job.”

"Is he?"

Hal looked at Snow sternly.

“If you've got something to say, say it.”

"I've got a question to ask you, Hal. How much of this is personal for you?"

“I don't know what you-.”

"You and your dual personality have been the source of my amusement for centuries. You always need a failsafe. When you're good, you need someone to pay for your sins; when you're bad, you need someone to store all your nobility in. This is why you run from evil, this is why you play cat-and-mouse games with good. You chose an idealist, a man of faith for a prominent position within the government that he cannot possibly agree with. What are you expecting? That he will change your mind? Or that you will destroy him, thus destroying your own vestiges of humanity? You've been going in circles for so long. Perhaps it's time to walk a straighter path."

Hal said coolly:

“I keep my head in the game. You don't have to hold my hand.”

Snow chuckled. "Don't worry, Hal. You have always been my favourite. I trust you."

Hal had difficulty taking that statement seriously. He said, almost vehemently:

“We need men like him. I chose him because he is focused and dedicated. We need men who think outside the box, yet are prepared to make necessary sacrifices. We need... we need men who would forget to feed because they are too busy planning our brighter future!”

Snow burst out laughing.

"Forget to _feed_? I like that. Yes, let them forget." He rose, prepared to leave. "Like I said, I have complete trust in you and your judgment."

Hal hesitated, then stopped him.

“He wants schools and hospitals in the camps. I have half the mind to indulge him.”

He was certain Snow would protest. Snow cocked his head, thinking, and replied:

"Yes. Give him what he's asking for. Give them schools, give them all the benefits. After all, the more you give them _now_ , the more you can take away later. And they will know it is their fault. You did all you could."

Snow was right. Of course. It was so simple. Hal was doing the best he could. He was trying that balancing act Rook had suggested. If it didn't work, it wasn't his fault but humanity's fault. They couldn’t appreciate all the effort. Humans lived far too comfortably and displayed no gratitude for it. Well, if carrot didn't work, Hal was only too happy to pick up the stick.

After Snow left, Hal made all the necessary revisions. Let them have all they want. Like bonus points. They fuck up - they lose the privileges. Perhaps Snow was right about the living situation too. It was time to go back to the palace.

* * *

Rook’s clandestine visit had taken much less time than he had anticipated and the entire evening spanned before him, his head abuzz with fruitless speculations. This new London wasn’t a city for driving around and so he returned to the palace. Under the thin moon juxtaposed with the pale bruise of the sky, its windows seemed forlorn and haunted. 

Against his better judgement, he sent Cutler a text message and there he was, lounging on the settee with his feet on the tea table and sipping Rook’s whiskey. Rook’s armchair was at a safe distance but he wouldn’t sit down, pacing the room restlessly.

Cutler declared: "If you're wondering, yes, I had other plans for the evening, it's just your rookery is a bit of a step up from the chaps.” He had been snooping around appraisingly, as if drawing comparisons with other palatial suites.

“I’m flattered,” Rook replied dryly.

Cutler snorted. "Well, don't be. The list of things that are better than the chaps include a zoo and the Tube during the rush hour."

Rook snorted. He wanted Cutler to talk but he didn’t want any of what had just transpired between him and Yorke. Luckily, Cutler was overly fond of talking. Rook could make a bet with himself as to for how long Cutler would go on unprompted.

For less than five minutes, as it turned out. Cutler was watching him expectantly. "What’s got you so buggered, anyway? If you don’t like Hal's new policies, do stand up to him, should be amusing. Oh, and I bet you didn't like the way Miss Snotty spoke to you either. This one you might want to gossip about."

Rook started saying, “Actually...”

Cutler interrupted, "It stings, doesn't it? To go from playing the lone sheriff to being just Hal's new boy?”

“For God's sake, this isn't about my pride!” Rook had always been a modest man.

Cutler rose to his feet and came closer. “You didn’t even have a say in the changes, did you? Happens to the best of us." 

Cutler didn't possess what one would call an intimidating presence but his uncanny perceptiveness about anything Yorke gave him an advantage he never hesitated to exploit. 

"You need to pull all that tweed off your lovely eyes, Dommy. You're not Hal's employee of the month - you're his property."

Rook froze, struggling to regain his composure, his nerves frayed, paper-thin. Cutler trailed his fingers over Rook’s tie. "When he's done with you, _if_ you're lucky, he'll let you pick up the pieces. So, what was it that you wanted to discuss so badly?"

A leaden silence hung in the room.

"Looks like you need a drink," Cutler muttered.

Rook found himself being pushed into the armchair and accepting a whiskey glass numbly. 

Cutler scanned the room. "Haven't you got any blood? Not that it’s a shocker." 

Rook snapped, “You’ve got no right to patronise me, Cutler, I’m not a child!” 

Cutler chuckled. "About time you dropped the 'Mr'. Also, there, I _told_ you it was about your pride." He took a seat. "I used to be a solicitor, you know. Sorted out other people's messes. Just like you." He winked at him and turned serious again. "If you want things to get clearer, answer one simple question - not to me, to yourself." 

Rook asked wearily, “And what question might that be?” 

Cutler put his hands on the armrest, leaning into him. "What exactly do you think you want from Hal?"

Rook was on the verge of violence. Instead, he put on a smile that was too sharp. “And wouldn't you like to know, Cutler. How threatened you must feel by my presence!”

Cutler blinked and burst out laughing. "Incomparably less than you do at the prospect of spreading your legs... for Hal." He grinned. 

Rook reached the end of his tether. He snarled, grabbing Cutler by the throat, relishing his open fear. 

He squeezed until Cutler’s face reddened, growling: “That was the _last_ unsavoury comment I heard from you, do you understand?” He loosened his grip just enough to let Cutler speak.

Another grave error. “And there I thought you wanted the sex talk,” Cutler mouthed. "Talk about mixed signals! Why, I was even going to ask if you weren’t feeling like transferring some of that fixation elsewhere, but I suppose not." 

Rook uncurled his fingers immediately. “Do invite yourself out, Cutler.”

Cutler readjusted the collar of his dandyish shirt. “Alright, I admit it, I’ve taken it a bit too far. Got carried away. It was just a bit of friendly teasing, seeing how the subject made you so uncomfortable.” He smiled amiably, as trustworthy as his maker. “You _need_ friends, Rook, you really do, and who else is there? Your former colleagues? Please, they won’t even look you in eye. Unless you’re still in touch with La Resistance...”

Rook shot him a warning look. Cutler should have learned by now that he didn’t appreciate idle threats.

“Think about it.” Cutler moved for the door, saying over his shoulder: “You used to be so much scarier as a human, you know. Now you’re just the rule, not an exception.”

What Cutler might actually be saying: ‘Hal will get bored with you soon enough.’ 

Rook said impassively, “Perhaps you ought to see a specialist about your... verbal incontinence.”

Cutler smiled from the doorway. “Perhaps _you_ ought to be nicer to your new family.” 

* * *

Hal hadn't warned anyone in advance that he was returning, so naturally his arrival caused a ruckus. In the middle of the night, the members of the staff roused by the event they had not anticipated were running about, trying to make the place look presentable. Their efforts amused Hal. He caught one of the maidservants, handed her a folder and dispatched her to Rook's quarters, telling her to pass it to him. Inside were the revisions marked as final. He would have no more discussions on the matter but he didn't think Rook would object this time.

Having re-emerged from his self-imposed exile, Hal did his best to make things hum. He gave a radio interview, oversaw the preliminary works on the territory of the future East London resettlement camp, was present at an execution of a resistance agent, reviewed budgetary matters, and finally got bored.

The dust had somewhat settled and one of those days Fergus rang Hal, saying that they had something interesting for him down at the cells. Hal could only imagine what that was, but he went there without a second thought because it was either this or more never-ending, mind-numbingly dull paperwork. Besides, Fergus usually made an effort to cater to Hal's tastes.

This time, however, Hal was beginning to doubt it. The promised curiosity turned out to be a scrawny young woman, largely unresponsive to any disturbances. Hal wrinkled his nose. A lyco, judging by the smell. He addressed Fergus a questioning look.

“She doesn’t look like much,” Fergus said, “but observe.” He leaned against the bars and pronounced clearly: "Mr Rook". The lyco's head snapped up and she wailed like a banshee. Fergus grinned. “Funny, innit?”

Hal raised his eyebrows. That was... unexpected. And indeed rather curious.

“Looks like we should invite the man himself down here. Give him a ring. I should very much like to know what brings this reaction on.”

He scrutinized the woman who was still quivering, reeling from Fergus’ little trick. She was young, but her haggard appearance made her look older. Her eyes seemed vacant for the most part, and only that name, spoken aloud, had sparked a semblance of animation in them.

As soon as Rook arrived it became clear that he didn’t have the faintest idea what the summons was about. Fergus pointed at the cell, still grinning, and Rook approached it warily. The lyco saw him first and screamed, huddling into the corner. Rook's eyes widened and he murmured to himself:

“The Bronzefield incident. Hello, Ms Bradley.”

She whimpered.

“Bronzefield?” The name sounded familiar. “The prison?” Hal came closer, both to Rook and the bars, and whispered: “Looks like you've got dirtier secrets than I have imagined, my dear Dominic. It is not often I get completely overlooked in favour of someone else.”

Rook's expression was grim.

“For Christ's sake, don't we have any sedatives? Ms Bradley suffers from extreme PTSD and other mental disorders.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ms Bradley was sentenced for the murder of her stepfather. We failed to take her into custody before the full moon and she transformed within the prison grounds. The clean-up was... It was a carnage. We found her plucking a guard's insides out, in _human_ form.”

Hal's eyes lit up.

“Just when I was beginning to lose interest in you...” He grinned at Rook. “Don't ever stop surprising me, I beg you.”

Fergus snorted in amusement. On the outside, Rook remained impassive. Even his eyes, bright as they were, betrayed nothing of his inner state, which Hal found both disappointing and intriguing.

“I released Ms Bradley into the world the day you stormed the archive,” Rook said.

He turned to Fergus, asking him to open the cell door, and Fergus complied, after a glance in Hal's direction. Rook walked up to the trembling girl and she rose, muttering bits and pieces of nonsensical speeches that sounded suspiciously like something Rook would say. _You’re a vicious beast… you must be locked up. It’s for your own good, as well as for the good of the world. Just doing our job… keeping the world safe from monsters... like you._ Then she bit her tongue and spat the blood out into Rook's face. He shielded it with his elbow in time by a pure fluke. He darted back and the girl lunged after him, trying to smear her blood over the exposed skin. They danced around each other. Rook feinted, distracting her, and managed to grab her by the head. He snapped the girl's neck seemingly without an effort.

Fergus cheered, muttering something about newfound guts. Hal watched the spectacle silently, with a smile. If Rook hadn't done anything, Hal would have ordered a dog fight, but this was in a way even better. Hal entered the cell and looked down at the lyco's body. It was something of a waste; the girl could be rather pretty. Hal could bet she would have cleaned up nicely. But, oh well. Didn't this feel liberating?

Whatever illusions Rook had harboured when he had walked into the cell were now dispelled. This was not an act of mercy, but a fight for survival. The fight, which Rook had won.

Rook turned to Hal, his eyes black. Hal returned his look and said:

“Are you hungry?”

Rook glanced back at Bradley’s body and growled:

_Yes._

* * *

In the aftermath of the bombing, a rigid curfew had been imposed, but of course there was always someone bound to break it. They moved away from the reputable parts of the city towards the outskirts where all sorts of riffraff stirred at night like rats. Rook found that he was perfectly comfortable thinking about them this way. Inhibitions, moral guidelines, good sense – all gave way under the pressure of the thrill of a hunt.

Rook had stepped out and his hunger had filled the vacant spot. They ran into a mismatched group raiding an abandoned building for supplies. He didn't wait for Yorke and attacked, swift and deadly.

Blood from a decanter had nothing on the nectar from the vein. Rook discarded his first prey, his lips and fangs smeared with red. His tongue darted out to lick off the residue. It was hard to imagine that his life had not always held such intense sensations. Blood eradicated all doubt, drowned out the remorse and made life feel like less of a burden. But more than that, blood revealed purpose. It highlighted the difference between them and the cattle, proving that they deserved this world no less than humans did, perhaps even more so.

He caught up with another straggler, a young woman who tripped and twisted her ankle. He murmured:

“Now, now, where are my manners? Let me help you, miss.”

He picked her up easily, only smiling darkly at her efforts to struggle. He trailed his mouth over her neck, the heartbeat fluttering like a trapped animal. He would set it free too. Suddenly, she pressed into him, her breasts soft against his chest, and begged him to recruit her. He snorted, his gaze flinty.

“That isn't what I'm after, miss.”

"Please." Her voice was husky in a misguided attempt at persuasion. He let her think what she would, depositing her on a windowsill and guiding her thighs apart. Yorke was busy with a girl of his own, but Rook sensed his stare like a chilly caress up his spine. Vampires were overwhelmingly physical beings, and he was beginning to understand why. Bodies were just another instrument of control. As if testing a theory, he pressed his fingers between the girl’s legs. Her temperature was elevated and her heart rate sped up. He sank his fangs into her neck, tasting the pleasure warming her blood. Not the worst way to die.

He heard the thud of a body dropped on the floor behind him. Yorke marched up to him, but simply stood watching. There was a speck of blood on his chin. Rook wiped it with his finger and licked it off almost as an afterthought, moving past Yorke to the empty street. He was still hungry, in spite of, or perhaps due to, all the fire that ran through his veins.

There was little hope finding anyone else at this hour, but there was a church at the end of the street. The first thing the vampires had done upon seizing control had been to shut down most churches. Some were blown up, others sealed. Yet it was a well-known fact that some priests still held services in those closed churches; some even lived there. When they reached it, Hal flashed him a conspiratorial grin and walked in. Rook halted in front of the church, something moving in him nauseatingly. No, he did not want to come down from his high, not now, not yet, not ever.

Yorke reappeared a moment later, dragging out a priest, a young man, almost boyish in appearance. Rook fixed his gaze on Yorke and his prey and felt the ghost burns from his own cross stir and fade.

Hal bit at the priest's wrist and held his other hand out to Rook, offering a treat. The young man was paralyzed with fear but the pain made him snap out of it. He struggled without much success. Hal ripped the priest's jacket and sank his teeth into the man's shoulder.

Rook found himself accepting it. The priest's blood tasted just like everybody else's. A tad malnourished, perhaps. He trailed bites to the crook of priest's elbow.

The priest found his voice and tried reading a prayer. It made Rook wince, though in Yorke’s presence the pain seemed muffled, as though he was being stabbed through a comforter. Hal took off his tie and gagged the priest. Then he casually sneaked his hand into the priest's trousers as he continued drinking. He made it look like a favour.

Rook reeled at that but he was unable to stop watching, transfixed by both the wicked light in Yorke's eyes and his hand. Finally, Rook's fingers closed around Yorke's wrist.

Hal moved his hand faster. The priest was moaning, though it was hard to tell whether the reason was pleasure, pain, shame or fear. Hal's lips were smeared with blood. He licked it off, slowly, sensuously, maintaining the eye contact with Rook.

Rook couldn't pry Yorke's hand off. There was a certain clinical satisfaction to watching oneself sink so low. He closed his lips over Yorke's, sucking at the residual blood. The priest's moans jolted through him like the strongest of aphrodisiacs. Yorke wrestled control of the not-quite-kiss away from him, biting aggressively at his mouth. It set Rook's blood on fire. He groaned into the kiss, made Yorke drop the priest and aligned their bodies full-length, moving against him feverishly. He could no more stop himself than he could a landslide. The friction sent jolts of electricity through him.

Yorke slammed him against the church wall and sank on his knees, tearing Rook's trousers open. Rook hit the back of his head and barely noticed. He buried his fingers in Yorke's hair and stared at him in naked hunger, swelling with arousal. This position agreed with him much easier.

Yorke certainly knew how to make the filthiest act look like a sacrament. It was an elaborate torture and Rook enjoyed every second of it. The masks were off but it went both ways. Rook could see that more than anything Yorke revelled in having cornered him. Sex was just another weapon and Yorke used it with class. He wanted Rook to leave his past self behind; so far it was working.

While Rook had been moderately vocal during the act, his release was utterly quiet. He tensed, as though fighting it off, his lips parting, and then surrendered to it completely, riding out the euphoria and breaking a little more through his surrender. He didn't know who would emerge at the tail-end.

Yorke pulled him down on the ground, so that they were sitting side by side. Rook took out his pack of cigarettes and lit two at once, leaning forward to place one between Yorke's lips. He really did feel like scattered puzzle pieces.

Hal studied his face silently through the puffs of smoke. Rook skipped a beat, taking a pull, and lay his hand just above Yorke's knee. His palm slid upwards, in a not at all hurried fashion.

“What was that you said about giveaways?”

Hal closed his eyes briefly, his breathing shaky. There was something so raw and natural about this. He leaned forth, winding his arms around Rook's shoulders, and kissed his neck with a hot, open-mouthed kiss. Rook growled and bit the side of Yorke's neck, his hand alternatively teasing and almost punishing. He wanted this, kisses with teeth and games and death clinging to their skin like a jealous lover.

“The priest is still alive,” Rook whispered in the tone of someone commenting on the weather. He had only just noticed.

Hal smirked. “I trust he's enjoying the view then.”

The corners of Rook's mouth turned up.

“He should: they don't transmit such shows upstairs.”

Hal licked a line up Rook's throat and nipped at his jawline.

“He didn't just enjoy _the show_ ,” he snickered. “Perhaps he's not going upstairs after all.”

“Ah.” Half-moan, half-acknowledgement. “You are such a bad influence, Hal.” The name slipped out easily, unobstructed by denial.

Hal's release was quick and sharp. He moaned, letting the sound roll through Rook. Rook shuddered as though it had been his own climax, his skin tingling. Hal watched him in return, lips parted, tips of the fangs showing. Rook leaned forward again, flicking his tongue against those fangs playfully, and drew away, smiling. He walked closer to the priest and felt for the pulse before biting the unmarked arm. He drank and the pulse died in his hands. Then he returned to the porch and lit a new cigarette. Hal sprawled on the ground, resting his back against the porch, and watched him.

Rook tilted back his head and stared at the church upside down. He didn't feel liberated. He didn't even understand the concept of being free very well. Everyone was shackled by something, they simply switched sets now and then. Guilt crept in, uninvited but pervasive. The blood highs were like nothing any human drug could offer but the lows equaled the darkest depression.

Hal declared: “You should wear that blue shirt more often. Brings out your eyes.” He smirked: “Except when something else brings out another colour in them.”

Rook's eyes narrowed icily. He wasn't a dress-up doll for Hal to play with. He stubbed out his cigarette and, little by little, expelled the belligerent tension from his body.

“I shall keep that in mind.”

Hal studied his face for a moment and sighed:

“Welcome back.”

Rook snorted. Despair lapped at his feet like dark, hungry waters - as hungry as he was. Hal shifted towards him.

“Why now all of a sudden? You never give yourself a break, it seems.”

“I don't know.” Rook stood up. “I think I need to clear my head. Excuse me.”

“That's the last thing you need, but be my guest.” Hal lit a new cigarette. “Perhaps we have rushed this poor sod's death. Perhaps what you need is a confession. Forgive me, father, for I have killed a couple of people tonight, one of whom was you.” He winked at Rook. “What do you say? I can hear you out in his stead. Isn't that what the church expects of all good little Christians?”

Rook glared at him.

“While good Christians are _encouraged_ to confess their sins to priests or each other, it's only God that can forgive them.”

Hal rose and walked up to him. Pricking his finger on Rook’s fang, he drew a cross on Rook's forehead in his blood.

“I am your God now.”

Rook stood rooted to the spot in astonishment and outrage at the sheer, blasphemous audacity. Never mind killing and tossing off that priest. The cross stung a little.

“Mistaking god complex for divinity is a common pitfall.”

“I didn't say I was _God_. I said I was _your_ God.” Hal whispered in his ear: “You drank my blood and were reborn. Isn't that what baptism is about?”

Rook shivered. “How can you be so certain you aren't a false idol?”

“I can't be, but it is not up to me to decide. There is an element of idolatry in every religion. How can you believe your God is just and benevolent when you've seen so much evidence to the contrary?” Hal’s voice grew lower, huskier. “At least I will never lie to you.”

Rook met Hal's eyes.

“Everybody lies, Hal, especially you. And the flaw is not with God but with his creatures. It makes one wonder if it isn't all just a cosmic-scale experiment. We are all running in the spinning wheels.”

“Why do you keep clinging to yours then?”

“Because I never wanted to find out what a terrible creature I would unleash.” He smoothed his fingers down Hal's collar. “Between you and me, we could destroy the world, Hal, but who would rebuild it?”

Hal smiled slowly. His face was very close to Rook's and his lips brushed Rook's as he spoke:

“Why rebuild it when you can build something new?”

“What could you possibly build from these ruins?”

Hal's fingers skimmed down Rook's arm.

“Anything. Anything you _want_.”

“Perhaps that is the crux of the matter: I liked the world the way it used to be, imperfect as it was. I do not want a world where I get what I want.”

Hal snorted. “You seemed perfectly content getting what you wanted just an hour ago.”

“Perhaps you should follow through on that stopping the clocks scheme.” Rook pulled away.

Hal's voice turned colder.

“You can punish yourself however you want, Dominic, but it won't change what you did. They're still dead, their blood is still inside you and you still want more.”

Rook said quietly: “I know.” The fight went out of him.

“If you tell me you didn't enjoy every single moment of it, I shan't pressure you any longer.”

Rook glowered at Hal half-heartedly. “Yes, I enjoyed it.” And now he despised himself for it. “Do you want me to be that creature full-time?”

“I want you to stop with the self-loathing. It's unbecoming.” Hal stepped closer again. “You were magnificent.”

Rook closed his eyes briefly.

“It is also inefficient. I felt as though all the stops had been pulled out. It is as addictive as the taste of blood.”

“It is merely your tendency to overanalyse. Blood doesn't distract you, it keeps you focused. It is the craving that is distracting. And now you wish to torture yourself once more with those unrealised desires.” It sounded like a bit of propaganda Rook himself would have given the registered Type 2s before it all came crashing down.

Hal touched Rook's chest with the tips of his fingers and glided them down towards his abdomen. Rook caught his hand mid-way and looked at him pointedly.

“If that voice of yours could be bottled, you'd make fortunes off selling it.”

Hal smiled flippantly. “Why do you think I've got such fondness for the radio?”

Rook chuckled, brushing his thumb over Hal's veins. Realised desires could be as much of a torture. Anything could be if one obsessed over it. They had already established that Rook was _mentally ill_. And a monster.

His hand clenched around the scruff of Hal's shirt briefly and let go.

“It has been a long night.”

Thankfully, Hal didn't push any further. He stepped over the priest's body and walked up the street, back to where they'd left the car. The ride back was mercifully silent. Once they reached the palace, Rook retreated to the questionable shelter of his room. Not for the first time he resolved to move out and then reasoned himself out of it. If he had had any literary inclinations, he could have written volumes on mental self-flagellation and possibly even won something like the Booker for that. Not that he desired acknowledgement.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Quotes from _Giovanni's Room_ by James Baldwin.  
>  **A/N:** How to make friends, now with a bonus blasphemy overload.

Hal’s entertainment plans had to be put on hold: they were snowed under a dispute that resulted from Hetty having ostensibly ordered a hit on one of the recently recruited former DoDD members. However, it was the maker who perished in his place. He had been a copper in Fergus' force.

Fergus did not take that well. Hetty justified herself by simultaneously denying everything and accusing Rook’s former department of general contrivance. Hal gave off the impression of being dangerously close to having them both staked but, of course, it wasn’t that simple. 

For Rook, Fergus' behaviour was a surprise: he stood by the recruit. He pulled Rook into the conflict as though they were allies.

Rook made a suggestion that Fergus and Hetty's champion of choice resolved it in a duel, in the old-fashioned fists-and-fangs spirit. Hal approved the idea but Hetty declared it insulting. She was an Old One and Fergus was a nobody. Fergus flared up at that and said that he was the fucking police and if she had a problem with that, she could piss off back to her lawless Bolivian hole.

On top of everything, Rook’s laptop started acting up. It went from innocuous glitches to inexplicable system errors to disappearing files and entire folders. The virus scan revealed nothing. 

It became a pressing matter that not a single computer professional could be found within the palace grounds. The HR department, the ‘H’ apparently standing for ‘Hal’ now, _helpfully_ informed him that it hadn’t been a priority.

Having exhausted his options, he contacted Cutler and inquired what the latter knew about laptop problems. 

“How about ringing up a specialist?” Cutler asked sarcastically. “Oh, wait, someone ate them all! So IT support’s bollocksed now, Detoo-Artoo.”

Rook eventually procured himself a new laptop. It was actually an older model and he couldn’t seem to get used to it.

He sent Fergus a memo where he detailed that Hetty was neither a citizen nor had she filled in any papers. Technically, nothing exempted the Old Ones from immigration laws and for all they knew, Hetty most certainly didn't have any visa at all. It was a stretch but Hal decided it would make a marvelous joke, so he ordered it done.

There was a small celebration afterwards; Fergus was buying the rounds and even Cutler showed up, with a disgruntled air. The majority of the police force changed their opinion of Rook: he was no longer a “grey rat” but a fellow vampire.

The newly gained cooperation made Rook’s work significantly easier. Hetty’s removal even broke the ice between him and Regus, who stopped glaring at him whenever he borrowed books from the library.

On an evening when Rook had more free time than he knew how to allocate, he took a stroll through the palace garden, wondering idly about the vegetable patch the Queen had installed a few years ago. Arthur must have mentioned it over tea. Had it already withered from neglect? Had the turnips gone wild? He smiled to himself wryly. He had never been much for gardening.

“Fancy all that barbed wire. Just like prison, isn’t it? Does it make you feel at home, Crook?”

“Good evening, Cutler.” Rook regarded him cautiously. “I would advise you against making a habit of mangling my name.”

One would have thought their last vis-a-vis had discouraged Cutler from further attempts at “family” interactions. 

He chuckled nonsensically as he came closer, making Rook take a step back and say preemptively, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ve got elsewhere to be at the moment.”

“Hang on, not so fast, mate.” Cutler’s gaze was intent, feverish. “I’ve got to tell you something.”

He smelled strongly of alcohol and looked like a miserable drunk.

“I’m sure it could wait,” Rook replied levelly. He was fairly certain he didn’t want to hear it.

Cutler had been married - until Hal stuck a tube into his wife’s neck and made him drink her blood without knowing. The story seemed genuine. Plausible. As did Cutler’s anger.

His suite was smaller than Rook's, the previous decor completely stripped off in favour of a stab at high-tech. He seemed to hoard every electronic trinket imaginable, from a stereo system to a plasma screen. Curiously enough, his accommodations were at a noticeable distance from Hal's quarters.

Rook looked out of the window that begged cleaning - the view at the garden was excellent, though - while Cutler downed a glass of water. 

In his former line of work, Rook had seen it all: rage and grief and self-pity and crocodile tears, and Cutler's current state was in the intersection of those four.

“The Old Ones, they don’t recruit lightly,” Cutler said, as much to himself as to Rook. “They just don’t. An Old One can’t walk out into the streets and grab the first mook he comes across.”

Cutler seemed to be a loner for a reason both like and unlike Rook’s: his existence revolved around a single gravity centre that allowed no extraneous influences. Hal Yorke was certainly _Cutler’s_ God. Was he furious because his sacrifice hadn’t lasted him forever, hadn’t made him unique like he must have believed himself to be at some point? Or because he was incapable of crawling out of Hal’s shadow?

Rook found himself asking, “What if you recruited someone?”

Cutler gaped at him. Rook was equally surprised at his own suggestion. It implied viewing the propagation of their race as something potentially desirable, as opposed to a curse.

"Look who’s changed his tune," Cutler muttered darkly.

Rook took a seat. “It would take your mind off... other things.”

"You should have just told me to get a dog. A normal dog, I mean." Cutler’s smile was brittle.

Rook glanced at him sharply but not entirely unkindly, without saying anything. 

"Hal will be royally pissed, you know."

Rook noted that the suggestion was taking root nevertheless. “Even if you ask for his permission?”

Cutler snorted. "He wouldn't grant it. He's a contrary bastard like that. Anyhow..." He stood up and walked over to his stereo. "What’s your music? Apart from _God Save the Queen_."

Rook didn't listen to anything in particular. Classical music, perhaps - it helped him think. Or jazz.

Cutler’s eyes widened. "How can you not listen to music? What planet are you from, spaceman?"

He smiled at him indulgently. Cutler shook his head in disbelief. "Alright, let's resuscitate your taste in music before it shrivels up and dies and you end up like Fergus, or, god forbid, start singing show tunes!"

He glanced at Cutler's video consoles warily. He drew the line at video consoles. The chalk line.

* * *

The last thing to hold Hal’s attention at the moment was a camp inspection, but it was on the agenda. Leo always did say routine was important. The camp had taken up all of East London (there was something poetic about keeping werewolves in, say, Barking); the relocation process was due to begin shortly. Curfew would be imposed and the territory would be surrounded with electrified barbed wire – for safety reasons. There were a hospital, a school, a kindergarten. Next year a new system of personal identification was going to be introduced. Hal wanted humans and werewolves distinguished from vampires as well as from each other.

He returned to the palace to find a message from Snow on his desk. Snow wanted to meet him at the flat. Hal walked in warily to find Snow already there helping himself to Hal's alcohol.

“This is not about Hetty, is it?”

Snow smiled. "Oh, Hal. If it had been, I would not have warned you." Hal couldn’t argue with that. "I want a progress report on the War Child."

Hal wrinkled his forehead. Snow hadn't brought her up for almost two years. Why now? He said cautiously:

“She is still underground. The last we heard of her was about seven months ago. She was still with her werewolf guardian and the ghost woman.”

"But she is alive. You are certain of it?"

Hal nodded. If she had been located, she would have been brought directly to him.

Snow sipped his whiskey.

"Good."

“Is there anything that you find particularly troubling? I could order a–.”

"No. No need." Snow rose. "Inform me if she is found. We do not want any incidents." He left before Hal could stop him. Hal thought it was all very bizarre, but then, Mr Snow rather enjoyed leaving things open to interpretation.

In the aftermath of the conversation, Hal summoned Fergus and demanded a report. Just as he had expected, there was no sign of the War Child. The brief meeting with Snow had left Hal restless. As a rule, he avoided discussing the War Child with anyone but Fergus since it was his job to look for her. Rook, to his knowledge, had no idea she existed. Hal deemed it prudent to keep it that way.

He stopped by library and requested Regus to bring him the scrolls. Regus watched him peruse the relics, and his stare made Hal jittery.

“Have you got something to say?” Hal asked, looking up indulgently. If Regus wondered why Hal was suddenly interested in the prophecies again, Hal might consider throwing him out of the window. Regus shuffled his feet and mumbled something. “What?”

"I said: may I recruit someone?"

Hal stared at him. Curiouser and curiouser.

“You want to... recruit someone,” he repeated in case he had misheard. Regus nodded. “Why are you asking me? You are four hundred years old and I'm not you maker.”

Regus made a face.

"Because you'd bite my head off if I didn't ask you."

Hal sighed.

“Go to the recruitment centre and pick whomever you like. I don't give two fucks about it.”

Regus gleefully retreated. Hal did his best to curb his imagination and not theorize on the matter of who the Vampire Recorder could possibly want to recruit and for what purpose.

* * *

There was a soothing regularity to rows of bookshelves, Rook had always thought, even if this particular library was more of an artistic mess. He cleared his throat to announce his presence to Hal, who seemed to be immersed in going over Regus’ scrolls. That was new. Rook hadn’t searched for his answers in the vampire lore yet but the DoDD had never acquired access to it or functional knowledge of the vampire script.

“Dominic.” Hal flashed him a smile. “Regus is out, so I'm manning the circulation desk today. How may I help you?”

A matching smiled tugged at Rook's lips, despite his heavy thoughts from before.

“In that case, in your professional opinion, what should I read?”

Hal put the scroll away, out of sight, and stood up.

“Good question. You never told me about your taste in literature. Aside from a certain fairy tale penned by the followers of one arguably immortal carpenter.”

“I’ve been fairly conservative in my tastes. I thought I might expand my literary horizons.” He watched Hal expectantly.

In his maker’s hands, even books grew teeth, so when Hal handed him a slim paperback volume displaying clear signs of aging on its cover, Rook accepted it with a familiar flutter of thrill mingling with trepidation. He carefully opened the book and read the first lines: the writing seemed to agree with him; that was something. He wondered what surprise lurked on those pages. Surely there must be a catch. He turned the page, just skimming over the lines, and ground to a halt at:

_“This is the lie which I told to Giovanni, but never succeeded in making him believe, that I had never slept with a boy before…”_

Hal was back at the desk, pretending to ignore Rook as if he had just given him a book of children's stories.

_“And I realized that my heart was beating in an awful way and that Joey was trembling against me and the light in the room was very bright and hot... Joey raised his head as I lowered mine and we kissed, as it were, by accident. Then, for the first time in my life, I was really aware of another person’s body, of another person’s smell. We had our arms around each other.”_

Rook leaned into the bookshelf, absorbed by his guilty, morbid fascination. It brought back the forgotten feeling of stealing apples from someone else's garden.

Do and don’t had always been such clear concepts in Rook’s mind, planted by his father and nourished by his duty. But God forbid Hal was ever that straightforward about anything.

A thudding noise snapped him back to reality. He saw Hal standing over a stack of magazines that had apparently poured down on the floor from one of the shelves. On top of the pile, lay an issue of _Marie Claire_ from a few years back. Hal stared at the magazine in something vaguely akin to distress. Rook closed the book and strolled over to the mess, asking if he could assist Hal with it.

Hal said tersely:

“It's Regus' mess, he'll clean it up.” He took the tome he had been searching for, picked up the scrolls and headed for the door. “Enjoy the book, Dominic.”

* * *

Rook caught the piano music while still in the corridor. The notes tugged at something in him. He hadn't been paying attention at the party with the dead pianist but now he could concede that Hal played quite well.

He knocked on the door.

“Come in.” Hal didn't stop on his account.

He didn’t mind: it would have been a pity to leave the piece unfinished. He stood a step away, watching Hal's hands.

He said, after Hal finished: “It's a beautiful piece.”

“It's Chopin.” Hal turned to him and smiled in greeting. “I don't think you've ever stopped by my room before. Is this a business matter or a social call?”

“Oh.” That gave Rook a pause. “There's a first for everything, I suppose.” He faltered and offered Hal an unpracticed smile. “It's a social call.”

“Then have a seat.” Hal walked over to the liquor cabinet. “Drink?”

“Yes, thank you,” he sat a little stiffly.

Hal chose red wine. He handed the glass to Rook and took a seat opposite him.

The taste agreed with Rook; the colour was deep burgundy. “There is something I would like to ask you, if you don't mind.”

“I can't tell you if I mind or not before you ask me. It would be very unsociable of me to veto any questions at all. How would we have a conversation otherwise?”

“Fair enough.” He cleared his throat. “What I wanted to discuss is the following: it could have been anyone in my room - but you handpicked a colleague of mine. Would I be correct in my assumption that you aimed to make a particular impact? Sever the ties, perhaps?”

“That, and, well, we were short on livestock. Besides, the guards complained that he talked too much.”

“I can imagine that quite well.” And so it was, every man for himself. “Alright, I shall admit that this line of questioning wasn't about me. Why kill your recruit's wife when you could have easily had her recruited as well?” His tone was that of detached curiosity.

“Cutler told you then?” Hal looked surprised. Naturally, it wouldn’t be something Cutler liked to share - or flaunt. “We do not recruit for personal reasons, Dominic. We are a community, so we make acquisitions that would benefit the community. Certainly, there are exceptions. That friend of mine, Ivan, he met a woman that he was fascinated by. He recruited her and eventually married her. By that time, Ivan was not bound by social obligations, but most of us are. I recruited Cutler because I required a new solicitor and he happened to be very good at his job. I daresay he only got better. Mrs Cutler, however pleasant a company she might have provided, would have been a distraction.”

Cutler must have wanted Rook to confront Hal about this - but to what end? He wasn’t fishing for information on Cutler’s behalf. However unsettling the tale might be, realistically speaking, it was hardly the worst atrocity committed by Hal - it could hardly sow more discord between Rook and Hal than there already was.

He drank his wine. “And he really did refuse to kill her himself? Even with the bloodlust?”

“He loved her. Of course he refused. In hindsight, I rather admire him for it.” Hal grinned. “Don't tell him though.”

Rook's eyes widened a little at Hal's admission. He wouldn’t tell - but he should always be mindful that nothing was ever as it seemed. “He's very... damaged.”

“Don't tell me you feel sorry for him.” Hal's smile turned positively predatory.

Rook tilted his head, his eyes following the curve of Hal's smile. “That would be impractical.”

Hal countered, “That would be human. Isn't that what you want?”

He shifted in his seat. “Compassion isn't strictly speaking a _human_ quality. It is a _person's_. Take this as a logical extension of everyone being potential murderers.”

“Good to know that you agree.” Hal fixed him with an attentive look. “But of course it's not compassion. You're much too pragmatic for that. You look at Cutler and you can't help wondering if I'm playing the same game with you as I have been with him. You want to know if that's your future.”

Although Rook's expression didn't change, he was stricken. “Those two assumptions aren't incorrect.”

Hal leaned closer, without breaking the eye contact. “So ask me.”

“Do you want me to be like you or do you want to break me?”

Hal whispered: “It depends. Do you want to be like me or will you let me break you?”

Rook brushed his fingers over Hal's throat. “The latter is not an option.”

“Then you've got nothing to worry about, do you?” Hal smiled, showing fangs. “Did you enjoy the book?”

He shivered. “It was sublime. And giving me... ideas.” His eyes glinted.

“Really? Would you like to share them?” Hal sounded intrigued.

Rook had decided - for now - that acting on it might at least give him a measure of control over the turbulent attraction. He let the pause stretch and then curled his fingers over the back of Hal's head, kissing him firmly. He seemed to be saturated with fresh blood.

Hal kissed back but did nothing more.

Rook moved his chair closer, their knees touching now, and deepened the kiss briefly as his hands roamed over Hal's arms. He rolled Hal's lower lip between his teeth without breaking the skin and then trailed nips down Hal's throat, unbuttoning Hal's shirt.

When Hal's chest was fully exposed, Rook pulled away, staring at Hal breathlessly. Marrow-deep revulsion flared up, mingling with desire.

Hal pulled Rook closer again by the tie and kissed him hard.

Rook tensed but returned the kiss, his knee propped between Hal's and his fingers digging into Hal's shoulder. He bit at Hal's mouth in retaliation for unbalancing him.

Hal slid his hand up Rook's lap towards his groin.

Rook’s mouth was on Hal's neck. With vampire blood, it wasn't the taste but the act itself. His restless mind helpfully conjured up an image of a different union, with Hal on the receiving end.

Hal dragged him out of the chair. They tumbled onto the floor, with Hal pinning him down. Hal's knee pressed between Rook's legs.

Every muscle in Rook's body was poised for fight-or-flight, his fangs out. He mustn't let Hal see his insecurity.

Hal looked at him with impenetrable black eyes and calmly started unfastening Rook's trousers.

Rook's arms strained against Hal's vise-like grip, testing it. He shifted slightly, preparing to throw Hal off.

Hal slid his hand over Rook's crotch and whispered: “Does that constitute a breaking point, Dominic?”

Rook’s answer was a low, guttural growl. He shifted, forcing Hal to lean closer, and head-butted him full force, bringing up his knee and finally throwing Hal to the side.

Hal cried out in surprise, then laughed breathlessly. “Your violent streak will never not be exceptionally arousing.”

Rook said in a pleasant voice, “Blood on your face becomes you. Especially when it’s yours.”

“How far did you think I would go?” Hal didn’t wipe it off.

Rook's eyes widened. It had been a test. He should have known.

He rose to his feet. “I didn't trust you to stop.”

Hal got up too. “If I wanted to take you by force, I would have done it a long time ago. Perhaps back when you were human.”

Rook's expression closed off. “Perhaps I should apologise for doubting you.” He headed for the door, readjusting his clothes on the way. “Have a good night.”

Hal called after him: “I know what you want. And now I know your fears. You should stop giving me so much ammunition, Dominic. I am too tempted to use it, though I don't want any discord between us.”

He gave Hal a long, dark look over his shoulder and said, “Duly noted.” He left without another word, thinking this round lost.

* * *

Being a suicide bombers magnet, the recruitment centre had been on the move ever since the glorious revolution (Sieg Heil!). The latest in the long line of the worst possible ideas was St Bart’s.

The stellar reasoning, as far as Cutler knew, was that there was a morgue. He didn’t even bother. He was merely browsing the wares. Or possibly dramatically throwing someone off the roof - he had a list of candidates.

He had a clear picture of what he wanted, though: someone tech-savvy, reliable, not too daft, baggage-free, and being easy on the eyes couldn’t hurt. He scheduled a handful of interviews: men, women, only the willing ones - but none of them fit the bill.

Not that he had expected any different.

During one of those visits, he overheard the guards going on about some oddball nobody wanted to recruit. he did always wonder what they got up to between wheelchair-racing and getting blown up. His curiosity piqued, he demanded to have a look at the bloke. 

In the same vein, no pun intended, the interview room used to be a doctor’s surgery. Cutler came in with a winning smile, alone because he didn’t want anyone looming over his shoulder. The bloke wasn’t supposed to be violent but Cutler still kept his distance. 

It was a young man in his twenties, gangly and badly dressed; what stood out was his face. Definitely one of the weirdest (and coolest) combinations out there: ginger, freckled and brown-skinned. The striking image was somewhat ruined by his sour, withdrawn disposition, which might have something to do with being handcuffed to a chair.

“Hello. I’m Nick Cutler, GP,” Cutler said amiably. “What’s your name? The GP bit was a joke.”

Ray Barn-something. Ray-Ban, like the sunglasses, except definitely not premium quality. He didn't possess any useful skills to contribute and didn’t bother denying it. Cutler made a pun about R’n’B. Ray lapsed into tense silence.

Cutler was taken aback, frankly. These days humans usually ran and got killed right off the bat or were overeager to get recruited. But at least Ray wasn’t planning to attack him, so he sat down.

He asked what Ray did for fun. The reply was, after a pause, “I draw.” 

Cutler requested to see the portfolio. Ray fished out an old camera phone he had somehow kept and showed him numerous shots of something very Picasso-on-LSD. Cutler personally thought it was fabulous. Besides, Ray’s photo skills were refreshingly... there. Professional even.

Ray was still sceptical. "I thought you didn't need artists."

“That's because you've been dealing with morons.” Cutler took out a pen. “I can sign the papers right now and save you from the wonky thermostat.”

Ray didn’t protest. He didn’t look too happy either but there was no outright hostility underneath his tired look.

The fact that Ray wasn’t much of a talker wouldn’t be a problem: Cutler was perfectly fine with someone listening to him, for a change.

They left the building and headed for Ray’s studio, which miraculously hadn’t been raided, even if the Internet and other benefits of civilization were already a distant dream in this area. Cutler felt a bit paranoid moving around these parts without an armed escort. 

The place was small, dingy and candlelit in the absence of electricity. The cupboards were eerily empty; Cutler found a paint tube, some instant noodles and a pack of stale biscuits but no tea.

He caught glimpses of the originals of those eye-damaging masterpieces and more restrained works, sketches, projects, all sorts of things. 

He could employ Ray in design. He knew someone driven when he saw him.

“There’s one thing.” Cutler came closer. “Consider it a personal quirk. I’d like to hear you say that, yes, you want me to recruit you. Out loud.”

Ray looked at him apprehensively. “And if you don’t like the way I say it, what, you’ll return me to the shop?”

Cutler flushed with anger. “I’m giving you _everything_ someone like you could hope for under the circumstances - you’ll live, you’ll continue painting - which is more than I can say for the upcoming camps - and all I’m asking in return is some bleeding gratitude! Is that too much to ask, Ray?”

Ray replied disdainfully, “Someone like me. Cattle, right?” He paused. “Just how much bleeding do you expect from me?”

Cutler blinked. “Well, duh... did you think vampirification came without a pint? Also, you’re too skinny to be a cow.”

Ray snorted. “Not what I meant.”

“You’d be surprised but I’m all in favour of not brutally murdering people.” Cutler smiled. “So, let’s call it minimum bleeding. Deal?” He extended his hand.

When Ray didn’t immediately shake it, Cutler added, “I didn’t want this revamped nazism any more than you, Ray. We were just... swept up by it. I want us to be friends.”

“You’re from Hal Yorke’s clique,” Ray pointed out.

Cutler raised his eyebrows. “So? You do what you’ve got to do to survive. I’m better off than most, I admit, but I never really had a choice. This is why it’s so important for me to give you one. If you go back now, it’s because you decided that, not because I changed my mind.”

Cutler brushed his fingers over an unframed painting. “Think about it, Ray.” He left and waited outside, checking his messages.

Ray made up his mind in less than an hour. “I want you to recruit me.”

Cutler clapped him on the back. “There, wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Ray didn’t reply.

* * *

Cutler didn't remember how he’d thought it would go but the wait was torturous. Someone had been playing Xs and Os on the whiteboard. He half feared that Ray wouldn't actually wake up because he had botched it somehow. He picked up a marker to finish the game but it had dried out. God, he was going as mental as Hal.

He paced around, bumping into dusty paraphernalia. He wasn't ready for any of this. Whose brilliant idea had it been to put the freshly recruited on morgue tables anyway? He was starting to feel like a coroner and he had dealt with enough coroners to last him a lifetime.

He accidentally dislodged a tray and his recruit stirred, regaining consciousness in tiny, painful convulsions. Cutler could sympathise. He cleared his throat. He was going to be smooth and impressive.

Ray opened his eyes and Cutler grabbed his hand. “Welcome back! I'm so glad you've made it. This might look like a horror film set but we’re already leaving.” In hindsight, he should have worked on his first words more.

He pulled Ray to his feet, not meeting any resistance. But then Ray’s knees wobbled and he sank back onto the table, staring blankly ahead. His eyes still hadn’t turned black.

“I know, I know, it’s awfully disorienting. It gets better, I promise.” Cutler hugged him awkwardly with one arm. “How’re your new teeth?”

Ray hugged back tentatively. At the last question, he raised his head and demonstrated his fangs. Well, that was a relief.

"That's it, then?" Ray asked quietly.

Cutler chuckled. “Not even nearly.” He opened a bottle of fresh blood. “Hungry?”

* * *

To clear his head, Hal accepted Jacob's invitation for a week-end in Portofino. Jacob had found himself a new mistress, human, but very agreeable. She seemed to expect being recruited in the future, but Hal doubted Jacob would go for it. Admittedly, his number of recruits had always been remarkably high for an Old One (and they all died like mayflies), but even he had standards. He did not recruit whores.

Hal returned from Italy on Tuesday. That had been one hell of a binge. There was a letter from Hetty on his desk, announcing that his joke wasn't remotely funny but lucky for him, she was "getting too old for this shit." Hal laughed. He thought it was just the opposite.

It was Fergus who informed Hal that Cutler had got himself a pet. The very idea seemed preposterous, but apparently Fergus wasn’t joking. Hal ordered Cutler to stop by his rooms. He didn't mention the recruit.

Cutler walked in like a man headed to the execution that had already been postponed half a dozen times. His face was taut and grim, a mask Hal could see through only too well.

“You summoned me?”

“You speak like a genie. Are you here to grant me my three wishes?”

Cutler chuckled nervously.

“To the best of my ability, of course.”

“Did you miss me?” Hal beckoned him closer.

Cutler walked towards him and leaned against the desk's edge.

“I always miss you,” he admitted.

Hal stroked the side of Cutler's neck where, many decades ago, he had bitten him.

“You have a funny way of showing it. Are you really that desperate for attention?”

Cutler shivered. His eyes displayed a vague mix of awareness and defiance: he had come in expecting a punishment, but he wasn’t consenting to it.

“I didn't think it’d be a problem,” he said in a steady voice. “What with the recent wave of recruitments and all.”

“Fergus says the boy is completely useless but drinks a lot. Reminds me of someone.”

Cutler's eyes narrowed.

“Fergus would say that of anyone I recruited.”

Hal snorted. Cheeky. He pulled a cross out of his pocket and hit Cutler with it hard across the face. He appreciated some backbone in his underlings, but there was a time and a place for everything.

“Everybody who is not registered on the recruitment team must ask for my permission. Which part of that statement is not clear to you, Nick?”

Cutler staggered from the blow, hissing in pain.

“I _know_ you! You wouldn’t have given it!”

Hal gripped him by the shoulders and forced him down on the desk.

“Why were you so eager to recruit someone? You never showed any interest before.”

He trailed the cross down Cutler’s chest lightly. Aversion to religious items was largely an individual matter and Cutler had never been much of a believer. His faith lay in the man who held the cross and not the cross itself. That was good enough for Hal.

“I wanted something that for once didn't revolve around you.” Cutler glared at him, his eyes bright, sickly. “God, sometimes I wish you’d never returned!”

Hal unfastened Nick's trousers and stroked him through the underwear with the wooden edge of the crucifix. He leaned into him and kissed his throat gently.

“If you wish it, then make me go away.”

“You're bored with me,” Cutler said, and shuddered. “There is no challenge in any of this.” The cross pressed harder against him. “Fuck!” Cutler hissed in pain. “What do you even care what I do in my spare time?”

Because we're friends, to quote Jacob. Hal tugged at Cutler's underwear so that the cross now touched his bare skin. Cutler jerked, hardening with undeniable arousal, his breathing rapid and laboured.

“If I didn't care, I wouldn't be here,” Hal said vaguely.

He moved the chair so that he could sit down, and dipped his head between Cutler's legs. The cross glided up and down the shaft, an excruciating contrast to Hal’s caressing lips and tongue. Cutler spread his thighs wider, searing pleasure making him quiver.

Hal pushed the cross in, without preparation, without anything to make an already painful sensation less nightmarish. Cutler cried out and jerked against the cross, impaling himself further. His face was contorted with pain but his eyes were dark with lust. He clenched his hand around a fistful of Hal's hair and pulled.

No matter what Hal did to him, Cutler enjoyed it. Rook's words came to mind. _Damaged_. Was this really Hal's doing or had Cutler always been like that, only too deep inside to let it rise? Hal moved the cross at a steady, quick rhythm. He wanted to impress the point: Cutler was _his_. Everything he did reflected on _him_.

Cutler clenched his teeth and kept quiet. Another desperate bid to hold Hal's attention, no less.

Hal tossed the cross aside, walked around the desk and leaned to whisper in Cutler's ear:

“Keep your plaything, but remember who you really belong to.”

“My lord is very generous,” Cutler said venomously. He slid off the desk, tugging on his trousers. “May I go?”

Hal grinned playfully. 

“You may. You'll still owe me three wishes.”

* * *

Rook hadn’t truly expected Cutler to heed his advice. Fergus told him, with a side order of snide remarks. Rook disavowed what he had set in motion, all the while following the events with keen interest.

Even so, he learned nothing of the punishment Hal might or might not have administered. He must have done it in private, between the two of them - unless he was still biding his time. Rook wouldn’t ask directly and Cutler had been unusually disinclined to pay him another visit.

It was Hal who broke the radio silence in the end. He sauntered into Rook’s quarters on a Friday evening without knocking, as he was prone to:

“Please tell me you haven't recruited anyone while I was gone.”

Rook looked up from the paperwork, saying: “No, I haven't.”

“See? I knew I liked you for a reason.” Hal sat down on the desk in front of Rook, dislodging a Richardson paperweight. Rook suppressed a wince.

“Have you made plans for the week-end?” Hal asked.

“Not as such.”

It hadn’t been Rook’s intention to win any favours and Hal’s habit of running the country from weekend to weekend was appallingly colonial. Although, Rook couldn’t in all honestly claim that the legion of Alistairs had had their priorities straight.

“What do you have in mind?”

“The Bedruthan Steps. A nice patch of rock and sand in Cornwall. Ever been there?” Hal picked up a file and skimmed through it. “You might like it. It's got character. Not unlike yours.”

“I recall some clean-ups around Padstow.” Rook wished Hal would stop snatching his things to fuel his illusions of productivity. “I’ll be looking forward to deciphering your last statement.”

“I'm all up for deciphering starting tomorrow.” Hal smiled playfully, got off the desk and walked  
to the door.

Rook restored the paperweight to its place, glancing at the pine tree inside. He would always be second-guessing himself, and Hal as well, but Hal’s invitation wasn’t entirely unwelcome. It also bore a suspicious resemblance to something akin to a personal life.

* * *

They set out early in the morning and arrived at their destination in under four and a half hours, Rook idling next to Hal, who had threatened to toss the reports out of the window if Rook took any with him. He remembered his Lexus with fleeting fondness. 

Serene countryside was a mild shock after London. Hal ignored the unkempt parking lot by a hotel that no longer admitted guests, leaving the car directly in front of the steps. There wasn’t a single soul in the vicinity who would steal it.

The cliffs had quite a dramatic flair: massive rocks jutted out of the sand like fangs. They said once upon a time a mythical giant used them as stepping stones on his way for a swim.

 _Fee-fi-fo-fum_ , Rook counted as they descended the steep, slippery stairs. _I smell the blood of an Englishman_. All the time.

The beach was deserted and postcard pristine, as if it had returned to its original state from before humans first set foot here.

It was a cold, windy day but Hal would not be deterred. They walked around the beach briefly - it was grey and unwelcoming and there wasn’t much of it - until Hal climbed a rock and refused to be moved.

Rook watched the choppy waves foam as they crashed against the shore. Did the sea swallow the beach whole at high tide?

“ _You_ remind me of these waters,” he said.

“Am I that unfriendly?” Hal asked.

Rook caught it in Hal's eyes that he found the comparison rather flattering.

He chuckled. “That was my line.”

The sea rumbled on, if not drowning them, then their conversation.

“I take it you have forgiven me?” Hal stretched himself over the rock, trying to find a more comfortable position. The wind had done a number on his hair.

Rook leaned towards Hal. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Why is that?” Hal watched him, not without mild sarcasm.

He pulled away. “I’d rather not hold onto grudges for the grudges's sake.”

“That's wise... probably. But I haven't got your patience, I suppose. Besides, good old-fashioned revenge often alleviates boredom.”

He asked curiously, “Why, did you want revenge?”

Hal chuckled. “Now that it wouldn't be a surprise, I don't think I want it.”

“It would have been something in the paperwork.” Rook's smile was sharp-edged.

“Oh, the dull kind, not the X-rated kind. I should have known.” Hal snorted.

Rook paused, then reached forward, curling his hands over Hal's wrists in a not-quite-hold. He whispered into Hal’s ear as he tightened the grip, his voice slow and pervasive: “I do want it - to pin you to the nearest vertical or horizontal surface.”

Hal whispered back, a little hoarsely: “What's stopping you?”

“Apart from the rock being neither horizontal nor vertical? Nothing much.” He dragged Hal off the rock and pressed his knee to Hal’s chest, smiling darkly, uncompromisingly. With control came absolute certainty. If this was what Hal wanted to see, he would get the front-seat view. 

They shared a kiss in the aftermath, slow and at the same time possessive. Hal had started it.

A wave snuck up on them and showered them with cold spray. Rook snapped his teeth at it.

Hal laughed. “I think... we should go for a swim.”

If they were still human, it would be downright suicidal. “Why not?”

Rook kicked off his shoes with the socks inside. Hal walked towards the water and jumped right in, as if daring the sea to do something about it. The water was biting, turbulent and murky. It had been some, what, fifteen years since Rook had a swim?

He followed an undertow, the adrenaline firing up through his system. He caught glimpses of Hal trying to ride the waves and risking getting crashed against those toothy steps.

For all that he was careful, the current pulled him under. He lost sight of Hal and then the wave threw him onto the rocks. He turned around at the last moment, scraping his hands and feet, only barely protecting his head. The water foamed red.

Hal dove out very close to him, smiling at the blood. “Careful. I suppose you have conducted experiments by keeping a vampire submerged for a prolonged period of time?”

Rook put up his usual unruffled facade. “We've been unable to determine the depth at which the change in pressure destroys the body.”

“If you like, I could arrange a laboratory for you. In case you get bored with all the paperwork.” Hal drifted closer, almost pressing against him.

Rook said icily, “I didn't do that for entertainment.” He paused. “It _could_ be beneficial...” He considered the funding. “You know how to tempt.”

It would make for some sinister reputation: a dictator and his pet mad scientist.

Hal drawled: “I just want to keep all my recruits happy.”

And distracted, Rook added to himself.

“A noble intent,” he said wryly.

“Come on, let's move this conversation somewhere warmer.” Hal returned to the shore, barely avoiding another collision with a rock.

Getting out of the water wasn’t a pleasant affair: the chill seemed to have seeped into his very bones. His gashes closed quickly but stung from the sea salt. He was barely able to track down his shoes. Worst of all, Hal appeared to have no such difficulties.

In an attempt to warm himself, Rook raced back to the car, jumping over steps. He quickly dried himself with a towel and put on the change of clothes. The shirt was blue.

Hal was sipping brandy in the car. Rook got into his seat, appropriating the bottle. Hal looked him over appreciatively. 

“Sometimes I envy fictional vampires with their superpowers,” Hal said.

Rook raised an eyebrow. “Why, would you like to turn into mist and slip out of the palace unnoticed? Hypnotising you've already got down pat.”

Hal smiled dreamily. “Turning into mist would be a perk, definitely. Also, surviving major blood loss and various traumas incompatible with life could come in handy.”

“I’m _immensely_ relieved those myths have been largely proven false.” Rook paused and whispered, “I would rather be an actual magician. Don't tell anyone.”

Hal laughed. “You and Regus have got more in common than I thought. Should I be advised?”

Rook pointed out: “I don't read women's magazines though.” He still didn’t have any explanation for Hal’s reaction to those _Marie Claire_ issues.

Hal's jaw flexed, but it was only for a second. “You don't draw superhero comics either. Or am I mistaken?”

“I can't believe he actually publishes them, albeit under a pen name.”

“He thinks no one knows.” Hal shrugged and started the car. “I don't mind.”

“All in good fun, I suppose,” Rook said before taking another sip of brandy.

They made their way towards Newquay, where Hal was planning to stay for the weekend. He drove with one hand and with an air of exaggerated carelessness that had to have been cultivated. 

The clouds were so heavy that Rook could practically feel their weight. As the beach disappeared from sight, the grass grew taller, the single-track road cutting through green fields. Alas, it was too late in the year for the daffodils.

“You have to admit, there is something about the stillness of the world as it is now,” Hal said.

Outside, abandoned cottages with tiled roofs and no fences to speak of emerged - a different sort of monotony. There were miniature palm trees on one of the lawns. Someone must have dreamt of retiring here.

“A sort of a _stop all the clocks_ feeling,” Rook mused.

Hal glanced at him. “Yes. I suppose.”

“And you didn't need any superpowers.”

 _Know thy enemy_ , Hal had quoted at him. He thought it had been his downfall. Back when he didn't understand vampires, they had been easier to despise unequivocally.

Hal snorted. “You'd be surprised.”

Rook would have none of that. “All the _super_ powers in this word are taken from someone or given willingly.”

“You still find it hard to distinguish between science and magic, don't you?” Hal fiddled with the radio but there was nothing on. “What would you say are we? Are we born from science or magic?”

Rook steepled his fingers, considering his answer. He said finally, “We may be born from 'magic' - for lack of a better term - but we live in a world that operates under the rules of science. Human science, such as psychology. It would not do us any good to discard them.”

Hal burst out laughing. “Oh, you've just given me an idea. Why don't you psychoanalyse a vampire? Starting with me.”

Rook was unimpressed. “There's a difference between psychology and psychoanalysis, as you well know. And the latter isn't my field of expertise. But have it your way, Mr Yorke. Let me toss some cliches at you.” His tone was coolly professional. “A person's development is determined by his early childhood. In your case, my conjecture would be a lack of a father figure and some confusion regarding the mother. You must have looked to find the former and punish the latter.”

Hal laughed again. “Is that it? Are you blaming all my supposed character flaws on Daddy issues? For your information, I had valid grounds for "confusion": I had _six_ mothers.”

Rook smiled. “No, I'm not. My recent experiences have taught me that character flaws should be blamed on the character. But science strives to explain and predict, not blame.”

“Keep explaining then. I'm sure I'm more complex than that. You could try looking for redeeming qualities and whatnot.” Hal winked at him.

Rook said, “I find your OCD rather charming. Does it intensify during your... 'quiet' cycles?”

“More or less. I suppose your next question would be: what exactly am I up to when I go off the radar like that?”

Rook hummed. “Well, I would speculate that keeping yourself in check is a full-time occupation. But do enlighten me.”

Hal looked like he was about to divulge the most terrible secret of the universe. He drew out the pause and then said enigmatically: “I sit in and self-harm.”

Rook frowned. “Self-harm how? Reading bad comics and listening to pop music you could have here.”

Hal chuckled and then said with sudden earnesty, “I allow myself to feel guilty.”

Rook studied him intently. Hal made it sound like yet another hobby. “And what do you seek refuge in, if you're not religious?”

Hal looked like he was beginning to regret starting this conversation. It was oddly pleasing to catch him at these little slips. “Routines mostly.” Hal kept his voice carefully flippant. “You know, cleaning the house, sorting the crockery, playing the lute.” He grinned. “Knitting.”

Rook discovered that knitting mass-murderers made him uncomfortable. Or at least this specimen. “I see.”

He had been putting off the inevitable: Hal's round of asking personal questions. He was as curious about Hal as he was reluctant to divulge.

They passed another beach at the delta of a small river. It had probably been a popular site once.

Hal recomposed himself and addressed him another enchanting smile. Not that he was enchanted. “Anything else about me that you happen to find _charming_?”

“Your taste in... literature, of course.”

“Of course.” Hal nodded. “Which reminds me that I'm still not sure what your taste in anything is like.”

Rook replied, after a pause, “I suppose that’s because lately my tastes have constantly been under revision.”

Hal looked at him attentively. “Did you enjoy the army service?”

“Some parts of it more than others.” And it hadn’t been a part of his father’s design.

“Why?”

Hal was zeroing in on something, like a vulture circling down from overhead. 

“It agreed with my character, I suppose: the order and the сompartmentalisation. Oh, and I liked my pistol.” He gave Hal a pointed look.

Hal said innocently: “I like your pistol too. Have you actually seen war or was it just...” He waved his hand, dismissing the service for service's sake.

“Bosnia,” Rook said simply, not volunteering any further information.

“You don't strike me as someone who enjoys that kind of action.” Hal's voice was so thick with innuendo that it was hard to say what kind of action he meant.

Rook’s legs shifted to cross themselves but he stopped mid-action. “You do strike me as the type to take trophies.”

Hal glanced down at Rook's legs. “You still begrudge me those little souvenirs? I admit that I took them back when you gave me reasons for concern.” 

“Perhaps.” He made himself relax, despite that look. “I had few personal belongings to collect, as you may have noticed.”

Hal drawled: “Do you want them back then?”

He was tempted - yet again. “The pen, perhaps?”

Hal considered it. “Perhaps later.” He met Rook’s eyes. “If you ask nicely.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.   
> **A/N:** Never underestimate the power of tea, cards and memories.  
>  Happy Holidays - and yay, we've finished Part I!

In Newquay, they stopped at a B&B that was completely empty save for the owner, a middle-aged woman who stared at the two of them with poorly concealed fear but let them in nonetheless. Hal was delighted that they could have a choice of rooms, and spent hours testing every room and finding flaws with it.

Rook simply took the first clean room but he did accompany Hal on his tour, seemingly amused by his antics. He left a generous tip to the owner, even though there was little she would be able to do with the money these days, and refused the famous Cornish pasty. With fatigued acceptance, he watched Hal tossing and turning and rolling all over the bed. He clearly thought Hal to be childish. Hal saw nothing wrong with that once in a while. Rook could use a bit of child in him, too. Perhaps he should eat one.

“It is a very important task,” Hal said, with authority. “You have got to take many factors into account. The relief,” he patted the mattress firmly, “because they’re often lumpy in public accommodations. The elasticity, the hardness, the position of the bed depending on the location of the window.”

Rook’s small, indulgent smile told Hal that if he started talking feng shui, Rook would set the bed on fire.

“Are you sulking because of the absent cream?” The innkeeper had told them she had run out. Hal saw no reason to take her words at face value. “How do you _know_ there is no cream?”

Rook leaned against the wall and disturbed the curtains, revealing moth-eaten holes.

“There is only one way to find out. Care to join me on my quest for a perfect cup of tea?”

Within the next hour, Hal reaffirmed his conviction that, as far as doctrinaires went, Rook could be almost worse than Hal himself. He discarded breakfast teas on account of it being past noon and grumbled about having to make do with scones instead of splits. The innkeeper brought him a pitcher of milk. Hal half-expected Rook to ask for a dropper to measure out the required quantity.

“The archivist at my department always made a perfect cup of tea,” said Rook nostalgically. Hal failed to suppress another snicker. “I cannot fathom why you are so blasé about tea, given all your… quirks.”

_Quirks_. Look who’s talking. Hal snatched his cup away and took a sip.

“Because I'm too busy watching you being a tea snob.”

Rook's calm exterior slipped in a flash of irritation.

“You've got your own cup, Hal.”

“So that's what it takes to really annoy you, Mr Home Secretary.” Hal put the cup down and nudged it daintily towards Rook with his fingertips. Rook recomposed himself, but continued watching Hal icily, eyeing the buttered scone in Hal’s hand like it was a grenade.

The jam was too sweet and had seeds in it and the elusive clotted cream was frozen to the point of making a solid block, of which Hal still managed to shave off a slice, albeit having had to apply force. Who knew that cream tea could be that great an adventure?

After a few minutes of silence interrupted only by occasional rustling, which indicated the innkeeper’s presence in the kitchen, Hal got bored. He trailed his foot up Rook’s leg under the table nonchalantly, watching the man nearly choke on his tea. It looked promising. Hal continued, parting Rook's legs, reached his groin and pressed teasingly.

“By all means, do not let me interrupt anything you're doing.”

“Oh, of course.” Rook sat back in his chair, seemingly enjoying it, his fingers drumming over the armrests. He refilled his empty cup with steaming tea. His hand moved to draw back Hal's sock, teasing the skin. He was still wearing the stony expression that could be considered classic if there was a fashion market for these things.

A small smile tugged at Hal's lips. He loved it when Rook played along. He pressed harder, moving his foot up and down. Rook's equanimity was all the more admirable now that Hal knew what turbulence was hiding behind it.

Rook removed Hal's sock, fingernails digging into the heel. He picked up the kettle – and doused Hal's foot with tea, careful not to splash any onto himself.

“I do not appreciate people drinking from my cup.” He flashed Hal an amiable smile.

Hal jerked and hissed. He swayed backwards and the chair collapsed along with him.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he moaned, rolling away from it. “You broke the head of state. I hope you're satisfied, you terrorist.”

The scoundrel didn’t even deign to burst into villainous laughter at that. Having relocated into another chair, he saluted at Hal with his tea cup, a tight smile tugging at his lips. Hal flashed him a sour look and closed his eyes in confirmation of his words. He could hear the sound of quiet, measured movement as Rook leisurely finished his tea, savouring every sip. Only then did he put down the cup and walk over to Hal's prone body. He straddled Hal's lap and pressed his ear to Hal's chest.

“No vital signs.”

He took Hal's pulse both with his fingers and with his lips. Hal fought back a smile, but strove to keep up the illusion. He felt Rook lean closer, nudging his lips apart and breathing air into Hal's mouth. Hal bit at his lips in retaliation and murmured:

“Your resuscitation skills are marvelous.”

Rook laughed.

“Why, thank you.”

A smile made him look younger.

“Did you ever have a girlfriend?” Hal asked. He was nowhere near done with personal questions. Oddly, this one didn’t seem to affect Rook as much as expected. His mirth didn’t vanish.

“As much as an average person. I don't remember them that well.” 

“ _Them?_ ” Hal grinned slowly. “Tell me what you remember.”

“Well, I only meant there'd been more than one. At school, for instance...” He frowned. “I remember a Janice and the back seat of somebody's car. Then there was Molly, she was supposed to wait for me. I think she got married. Clara was a colleague.”

Hal sat up, gliding his palms over Rook's hips.

“Nothing serious then? Why is that?”

Rook narrowed his eyes, which gave him a half-cautious, half-disapproving look. Like a schoolmaster. He put on a sardonic smile.

“I should think I am not a romance material.”

Hal placed his hand on Rook's belt buckle.

“What about the army? Anything noteworthy there?”

Rook tensed for a split-second. “Not as such. Nothing worth mentioning.”

“You're lying to me, Dominic,” Hal chided playfully. “If you want your pen back, you might want to work harder.”

Rook's eyes narrowed even as he leaned into Hal, evidently weighing the pen against the dirty laundry.

“Fine. There was someone in the military who took a liking to me. I used it for career advancement. It never went far, though.”

Hal worked his hand around Rook’s groin.

“But you enjoyed it, didn't you? Did you ever want to go further? Like... on the beach.”

Rook's eyes widened. “No.” Such certainty. If self-deception was an art, Rook had perfected it. But then, perhaps he was not trying to deceive anyone right now.

“Then what's changed?”

“Apparently the vampire condition really does unscrew some loose bolts.” He steadied himself, clutching at Hal’s shoulders.

Hal took the pen out of his breast pocket and dangled it in front of Rook.

“Why is this so important to you? You’ve got an array of writing utensils at your disposal now.”

Before Hal could so much as blink, Rook lunged forward and snatched the pen with his teeth, effectively unable to reply. Hal retaliated by driving his fangs into his recruit’s neck, making him drop the utensil.

“No playing dirty. I said you’d have to work, so work.”

Rook moaned.

“I simply like the pen and it is mine.” He sounded mortified. “There are no deeper motives than that.”

Hal picked the pen up, pulled the cap off with his teeth and pressed the tip against Rook's hand. He pushed hard and moved it, leaving a deep mark on his skin.

“It bothers you, doesn't it? Not having anything you could call truly _yours?_ ”

Rook stared at the beading up blood in fascination.

“That isn't so different from the department, actually. The problem is that now anything that doesn’t belong to me, automatically belongs to _you_.”

Hal licked the blood off.

“Would that include you?” he teased. He could feel Rook shiver. Rook’s fangs were out, ready for an attack.

“I would not admit to that.”

Hal moaned as the teeth grazed his skin.

“Why not? You never did belong to yourself, so nothing's changed.”

“There's a difference between not belonging to yourself and being up for the highest bidder,” Rook murmured in his ear. “You too belong to the regime.”

This statement was difficult to argue with. Hal raised his hand and drew a line down Rook's neck, pressing the point of the pen to his skin - not hard enough to draw blood but hard enough for him to feel it. He stopped at the pulse point. Rook couldn’t have missed the derisive symmetry of this gesture with his last suicide attempt.

He looked Hal in the face and admitted:

“I wouldn't want to die now, if that is what you want to hear.” No, of course not. The ultimate desk drudge staked by a pen, a tragicomedy in half an act. "Why should I want it now,” he continued, “when I have already survived my world ending?” He sounded stubborn.

Hal pressed on a bit harder before withdrawing his hand. He supposed _little death_ would have to suffice.

He placed the bloody tip of the pen between Rook’s parted lips and watched him suck reflexively on it, drinking in the metallic taste of ink and his own blood. The sight of it enflamed Hal even more. He bucked up, the friction between them hot and still insufficient.

Sometimes victory looked an awful lot like defeat; at other times, defeat could bring triumph. Hal slipped the pen into the pocket of Rook’s jacket, surrendering it, and whispered:

“Now I wonder what you're prepared to do to get the pistol back.”

* * *

Loud rapping on the door startled Rook. He had dozed off, curled up around a book, and for a moment he was completely disoriented, forgetting where he was.

Hal didn’t bother waiting for a reply. He sauntered in, the very image of a gentleman of leisure, and wondered nonchalantly if Rook cared for a snack. Rook very much doubted Hal cared _if_ he cared. He sat up, shaking off the vestiges of drowsiness. He said, despite his reluctance:

“I suppose.”

The streets were empty as if the whole town had died out. Identical houses peered at them with black, unlit windows. The larger part of Rook hoped they wouldn't find anyone. Hal kept marching on. Not that Rook had expected anything less from him.

He didn’t know what Yorke was trying to prove, roaming the desolate streets. The whole country belonged to him, most of it quite legally on paper. Even if it hadn’t done, he would not require an invitation anyway. Apparently Hal felt the same after a half-hour of fruitless wanderings. He picked the lock on the door of a small cottage and came in, beckoning Rook to follow.

“Breaking and entering?” That rather was Hal's style once he grew impatient, and yet, somehow Rook had hoped Hal would just get bored and leave. Rook's gaze fell on the family photos. It was a ghost town without ghosts. Now that Rook was able to see them, ghosts eluded his presence.

Hal winked at him. “Are you offering?” He moved quietly, exploring the territory.

It took Rook a while to get the double meaning.

“You are rather like Midas: turn everything you touch into innuendo.”

There were people in this house, he could sense them. Hal must have detected them as soon as they had entered. Under one of those rugs there would be a trapdoor. How eyewateringly predictable.

“These people already live in constant fear and yet you have to grind them down even further. Perks of being a tyrant?”

“Believe it or not, I don't really care about frightening them unless they refuse to cooperate.” Hal kicked the dusty rug aside and threw the trapdoor open. Inside, there was a family of five: the parents, a young girl, a boy of about seventeen, and a grandmother. Hal glanced at Rook like a cat pleased with the catch. “But I _am_ hungry.”

Rook met Hal's eyes. He didn't suggest Hal let the children go because what would they do without the parents and because mercy was generally a seldom used word in Hal Yorke’s vocabulary. A gamble the flighty vampire could potentially accept – and some of the family could survive.

“How about we flip a coin for each of them? Heads for life, tails for death.”

Hal appraised the family.

“Your lucky day, ladies and gentlemen. But I must warn you: if you try anything, like threatening my friend here with crosses or running, I will kill all of you in _very_ creative ways.” He beckoned them to come up and said to Rook: “Who goes first? Take your pick.”

He pointed silently at the mother. The choice was spontaneous, illogical. He flicked the coin up deftly, caught it between his hands and showed it to Hal, his face darkening. _Tails_. He should have chosen the man. Hal had less interest in them. Death wasn’t the thing to be feared when you were in the hands of Hal Yorke; imagination was.

Hal grinned predatorily. The father made a move in their direction, but the mother stopped him and approached the vampires, her back straightened proudly.

“Bon appetite,” Hal drawled. Slowly, it dawned on Rook the meal was for him.

His heart sank. He always brought these things upon himself. Yet he felt a stab of relief. He wouldn’t hurt her. She stood before him, straight as a rod, unflinching, a tangle of veins and capillaries, and he couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry. Not for her at least. She got to keep her dignity.

He brushed her hair away from her neck and bit her. The blood tasted as rich as it always did.

Hal took the coin and turned to the family.

“Who wants to go next?”

The father glared at him hatefully.

"I'll go."

“Ooh, not a very smart move. What if you die?” Hal grinned, and beckoned the girl closer.

"I said I will go, what more do you want?" the father exclaimed.

“Don't worry, that's not what I need her for.” He squatted in front of the girl and brushed her hair off her face. She looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. “What's your name, princess?”

She glanced at her father who nodded slightly.

"Ruby," she murmured.

“Well, Ruby, here's what you're going to do. You're going to flip this coin,” he put the coin into her hand, “and maybe you will bring your Daddy luck. Go ahead.”

The girl looked at her father hesitantly. The man growled at Hal:

"You're a monster."

“Does Daddy always spell everything out?” Hal smiled at the girl. “Flip the coin, Ruby.”

There was a hard edge in his voice, thinly coated by the honey sweetness. She complied. Hal looked at her open palm when the coin landed.

“What do you know, she _is_ lucky. Go.”

"I'm not leaving my family for you to indulge your perverse fantasies!" the man protested.

Hal's eyes darkened. He placed his hand at the back of Ruby's neck and said:

“Either you go, or I will kill her right now, out of turn.”

"Dad, for fuck's sake, go!" snapped the boy. The man looked at the others, tears in his eyes, and bolted.

Perhaps for the first time since his recruitment, Rook felt like a complete and utter monster. He could find no excuse to hide behind. He took the coin from the girl and handed it to the boy.

“Flip it. For your sister.”

“Why are you doing this?” the boy whispered. “Why not just kill us and be done with it?”

Rook froze.

“Wouldn't you rather grapple for a chance to live, slim as it might be?”

“What's the point? You'll kill us anyway. If not you, then someone else. I'm not scared of dying but your mind games make me sick.” He tossed the coin, looking angrily in Rook's eyes. It landed _tails_. His lips trembled. He whispered: “Please. Not her. Take me. Just let Ruby and grandma go.”

Rook said coolly:

“Everyone is scared of dying.” He grabbed the boy by the elbow and turned to Hal. “This young man here is offering himself in exchange for the girl and the grandmother.”

This raised an instant slew of protests from the old woman. She claimed she had had her time and there was nothing to live for anymore. With her bulging, watery eyes and her sagging cheeks, she reminded Rook of a craggy old frog.

“How noble of you,” Hal snorted. “Unfortunately, I was going to let you off the hook anyway because I don't like you. So go before I snap your neck out of boredom.”

Ruby's chin was trembling and she was crying. The boy implored his grandmother to go and eventually she did. There was a difference between heroism and suicide. Thank god these people understood that.

Hal strode up to the boy.

“Name?”

"Kyle."

“Tell me, Kyle, why shouldn't I just take you both? After all, her fate's been decided and yours still hangs in the balance.”

Rook rammed his hands in his pockets, resisting the urge to hit Hal over the head with something heavy.

“The coin flip was sloppy,” he said. “The boy just threw it instead of making it turn over properly.”

Kyle glowered at Hal.

“Blood is blood, what difference does it make? I've got more, I'm bigger.”

Rook sighed. That sounded reasonable. Hal could be contrary purely out of flippancy. But she looked small even for her age, she shivered like a blade of grass in the wind, she wouldn’t put up a proper resistance, not the way Hal liked it.

Hal looked them both over as if making an assessment.

“Fine.”

Kyle darted up to his sister and hugged her fiercely.

"Go find Dad, all right? I'll be right behind you."

She hugged back.

"I'm scared."

"I know, Ruby, but I promise, I'll be right behind you. Go."

She ran out of the house. He turned to Hal, struggling to look brave. Hal circled him like a shark. He brushed his fingers across the boy's chest and looked at Rook over Kyle's shoulder.

“Nice to see the world still has heroes in it.”

Rook folded his arms over his chest, ashamed and humbled.

“Nice to hear you acknowledge that humans can be heroes.”

Hal smirked and suddenly pushed Kyle against the table.

“I don't think I'm hungry anymore. At least not for blood.”

Rook flinched in disgust. He should have known...

“I'm not going to watch that.”

Hal should keep the boy alive afterwards. He would hate that. In hindsight, Rook detested heroes.

Outside, he leaned against the brick wall and lit a cigarette. The smoke scratched at his throat, failing to eliminate the smack of blood. He pretended not to hear any sounds coming from the house. Hal must have felt so gratified, knowing he could still shock his recruit.

“Cigarette?” Rook offered when Hal finally emerged from the house.

“Thank you. And an explanation please.”

It felt like failing an examination.

“I never particularly enjoyed killing people with my own hands,” said Rook. “I tended to make it my last resort as a rule. And now it is to be my lifestyle.”

“Understandable, but I _asked_ you if you wanted to come. I explicitly stated the purpose of this walk.” He reached out and brushed a drop of blood off of Rook's chin. “You still agreed to come and now you're acting like you haven't expected any of this.”

Rook lapsed into a heavy silence. Hal made a valid point. He shouldn't have come if he hadn't been feeling up to it. That was his lesson. He couldn’t be a hero, but he couldn’t be a silent observer either.

Hal looked at him with serious eyes.

“Why do you think I'm doing this?”

Rook said bluntly:

“Because you enjoy it.”

“No, because I'm _bored_. And because I can. And to make a statement. I'm layered.” Hal pressed his finger to Rook’s chest. “You enjoy my company and you hate yourself for it. You've got another option, but you never use it. Tell me no.”

Rook swatted Hal's hand away. It was rather too late for a “no”, wasn't it? He threw his cigarette away.

“I will be in my room for the rest of the night, but don't take it as an invitation. Oh, and please don't kill the B&B owner.”

He strolled away without looking back.

On the way to the B&B, he paged through all the terrible things he had done in the past few months. He could no longer blame it on hunger. It truly was no more than he had done for the DoDD but of course it was different. Rook hadn't lied when he’d claimed to want to live and he supposed that meant the point of no return. If only he could conjure up something, _anything_ , to assuage his guilt or... yes, he could take a page out of Hal’s book and knit himself some socks. That would work: a sock for every life ruined. Rook locked the door to his room and knelt by the bed, his prayer aimed to cauterise the raw, bleeding conscience.

* * *

That definitely wasn't a no.

Hal dropped the dog-end and returned to the cottage. Upon entering the living room, he had water splashed in his face. He wrinkled his nose.

“I'm an Old One, boy. Ill luck.”

Kyle lunged at him with a stake. He was clumsy and strung-up; the attack was ridiculously easy to block. Hal pushed Kyle against the wall and gripped the hand clutching the stake. He pried the stake out of the boy’s fingers and tossed it aside.

“You should have joined your family already.”

"Thought I'd try my luck," Kyle growled.

“Oh? A slayer wannabe?”

"Someone will do it. Not me, but someone else. I've heard the rumours. About the saviour."

Hal's eyes widened.

“You really should keep your mouth shut.” He considered killing the boy, but perhaps that was what Kyle wanted. Hal took his index finger and pulled back until it snapped. Kyle screamed. Hal broke the rest of the fingers and let him sag to the floor. “I should very much like to see the world saved by a child.”

Rook should be pleased with himself: only one of the five family members was dead. They had all learnt a valuable lesson tonight. Everything here was Hal’s to do with as he pleased. Every life taken served a purpose; every life spared was Hal’s whim.

He took a stroll through the ghostly town before returning to the B&B. He didn't try to reach Rook and he spared the owner, though he did feel hungry. He thought that he'd chosen Rook, his usefulness for the state notwithstanding, because he was a ruthless but noble man. Hal felt like dancing on the edge of a knife with him. Rook feared he would turn into Hal or, worse, Cutler; Hal feared Rook would turn into Leo.

* * *

Judging by the din and the clatter of dishes downstairs, the B&B owner was still alive. Small blessings.

After the hard night, a bleak, nippy morning arrived. Rook had always prided himself on facing the world undaunted, no matter what. As he buttoned up his shirt in front of the empty mirror, he thought it was just as well he couldn't see his reflection anymore: he wouldn't spot a single redeeming quality.

He found Hal in the dining-room, waiting languidly by the table set for breakfast. There were eggs and bacon, crumpets and tea.

“Good morning, Hal,” said Rook, taking a seat. There was no reason not to be civilized. Nor to skip the small talk. “Why do you suppose the food doesn't taste the same? As far as I know, our taste buds didn't undergo any changes. Is it that the edge of hunger for it was taken away? Does blood simply make it pale in comparison?”

Hal nodded in greeting.

“It's hard to say. Perhaps a little bit of both. But I suppose if you are well-fed, you wouldn't be distracted by thirst for blood and will be able to appreciate the taste of food the same as a human can.”

Rook looked at the plate. He never really could. Food had always been a requirement rather than enjoyment. But then, he understood why vampires made such a fuss over blood, and he could certainly relate to that when it came to tea. He toasted at Hal with his cup and was altogether criminally pleased to see that Hal moved his feet from under the table.

“Do you ever have nightmares?” Rook asked. Hal had the irritating air of someone who had slept through the night like a baby. As for Rook, by the time he finished the prayer, he had been shaking and his cheeks had been damp. He had had a few hours of fitful sleep and considered that a blessing.

“Yes,” Hal answered. It threw Rook off because he hadn't had a particular agenda.

He said carefully: “So do I.”

Hal watched him almost hungrily. “What about?”

“I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“You go first.”

Fair enough. Rook collected his thoughts.

“I saw that little girl from yesterday, crying.”

“I see no reason for that. She survived. With almost all of her family.”

Hal made it sound so seductively simple.

“She's been through a terrible experience nonetheless,” Rook noted. “And I know there's more to come, for all of them.”

“No, really? I haven't noticed.” Hal sounded sarcastic.

Rook clenched his jaws.

“Your turn. Tell me how your worst nightmare is being buried under piles of paperwork.”

“You're a mind-reader,” Hal laughed. “That's exactly my biggest nightmare. That, and Cutler providing a running commentary on everything.”

Brilliant. Rook had inadvertently given him a way out.

“Doesn't he do that anyway?”

Hal smiled predatorily.

“He does, but in the waking world I know plenty of ways to shut him up.”

Rook had little doubt about that. It made him feel uncomfortable. He busied himself cutting his strips of bacon into smaller slices. The heady smell was fading as the meal was getting cold.

Hal had lived a long life. Five centuries of it. That made for a rich nightmare material, including his exciting backstory possibly featuring the devil. Hal laughed at the suggestion.

“I don't have nightmares about the devil. Because of him I lost a... potentially good fuck.”

“You never did fill in the blanks,” Rook couldn’t help pointing out. 

“We summoned him to destroy him,” said Hal offhandedly. “We were naive and foolish. I don't think anyone has since accomplished what we thought we would, but even if he is alive, he is weak.” He took a bite of his crumpet, brushing the crumbs off his lips with the tips of his fingers. The mask of civility was a hard one to maintain. He grew weary of it quickly. “Then again, we stuffed him into a human body, and that was almost one hundred years ago. I dare hope he's passed away.”

Rook's tea cup clattered against the table. He stared at Hal in consternation.

“You summoned the devil. To destroy him.” _Who_ trusted Hal Yorke to run Britain again? “That is just... hmm. I think I shall ring Cutler up because I need double sarcasm right now.”

“It wasn't my idea, I was in it for the sex.” Hal paused. “Not, uh... not _with_ the devil obviously.” He grinned. “And if you breathe a word of this to Cutler, I'll throw you both in prison. Together. In the same cell.”

Rook couldn't hold back any longer. He let out a strained half-hiccup half-chuckle. It got worse and turned into a full-blown laugh. He managed: “I do apologise.” And laughed again.

Hal tried to maintain a huffish façade, but ended up laughing too. It must be funny a century later. It seemed positively idiotic.

Rook's chest hurt from all that exercise. He calmed down eventually and leaned back in his seat, sighing. He couldn't remember the last time he had laughed like that. It was bizarre.

Hal was looking at him with a boyish grin.

“Glad you find my misery amusing, Mr Rook. At the risk of destroying my reputation completely, I shall tell you that I just stood there and looked irresistible like I always do. A ghost did the actual summoning.” Hal winked at him, his eyes sparkling. “I really do not recommend taking anyone on dates involving magic. It tends to ruin the prospects.”

Dear Lord, how had they gone from Rook’s nightmares to mutual admission of Hal’s idiocy to flirting? Like bloody teenagers! Rook wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know the answer to this question. Hal mercifully did not push him any further.

After breakfast – an odd affair by any standards – Rook went out for a stroll. Not abhorring Hal was off-putting to say the least, but having days like this, unmarred by government work, mornings that contained a fine breakfast and engaging conversation, swimming in the sea in winter and cutting loose – that terrifyingly self-indulgent lifestyle made his skin crawl. He had never let personal feelings cloud his judgement so badly.

He wondered if the constant distractions were specifically aimed to keep him from contacting the resistance. Rook would be a hypocrite to criticise extremism but now that their victory was a distant prospect, they did more damage than good, including to Rook's projects. He saw more promise in working inside the established system than in playing at terrorism.

He twirled his pen in his hands, thinking and thinking. He was too damn curious for his own good.

* * *

Rook lit the fireplace, experimenting with tinder and bits of paper until the fire burnt nearly perfectly. He settled himself into an armchair comfortably and the room seemed grainy around him, as though caught on old film. There was something captivating about looking at the flames.

Hal came downstairs a short while later and made tea. “Here's your perfect cup, Dominic. Tell me otherwise and I shall know you for the liar that you are.”

“Let us put that to test, shall we?” He accepted the cup and inhaled the aroma before taking a sip. “Close enough.”

Hal pouted. “It _is_ perfect.” 

For somebody who was habitually less than generous with his praise, Hal certainly demanded exorbitant amounts of compliments.

Hal claimed the other armchair and stretched out his legs, his feet together. “Isn't it nice to have the whole place to ourselves?”

“It is.” He was still in the mood for silent contemplation.

He scanned the room for anything of interest that wasn't Hal, giving the picture frames on the walls altogether more attention than they merited.

“Do you play cards, Dominic?” _Shall we play a game, Mr Rook?_

He frowned. “Hmm, yes, I would say. Why?”

“How about a game of poker? I haven't played for ages.” Hal looked at him with the most innocent expression.

“What kind of poker? Five-card, Texas Hold’em? What are the stakes?” In all things Hal, terms _not_ set were terms exploited.

Hal said impatiently: “Just poker, Dominic. We’re not at the Ritz, in case you haven’t noticed.” 

Rook might consent to a friendly game of poker. So far he’d had the worst luck when it came to playing against Hal, but he knew how to count the cards. He wouldn’t be above cheating - and neither would Hal, for that matter.

Hal claimed that the deck had come from one of the rooms, submitting it for Rook’s thorough inspection. They sat down at the table.

“I’m afraid I haven’t got any money on me,” Rook announced.

“We're not playing for money, Dominic, that's vulgar.” 

Hal smiled indulgently as he started dealing - before they had so much as placed the token bets. Rook watched Hal’s hands unblinkingly.

“What _are_ we betting?” 

“Clothes.” Hal was obviously enjoying the look on Rook’s face.

He pulled back. “Well, that's... scandalous.” He wondered how that would even work. 

Hal laughed. “Honestly, you've known me for _how_ long? And you find _this_ idea scandalous?”

It was self-evident that Hal’s strategy would be to make him undress as quickly as possible. He took a hasty inventory: he had a tie and a vest over on Hal. 

“ _One_ game, and the ante is a shoe.” That should suffice for humouring Hal without losing all of his garments.

“ _Two_ games. Don't pretend, you're not always this boring. That's not your natural state.” 

“Hmm. Fine.” This time, he would win. “Each sock also counts as a separate item.” 

They put the shoes on the table - metaphorically speaking - until it wasn’t metaphorical anymore: Hal decided that they should strip as they went instead of afterwards. Rook’s left shoe stood by the armchair in vague disapproval and Hal sent his ante crashing into it. He chose to ignore Hal’s childish antics, not rising to the provocation.

They looked at their cards, which was, if nothing else, an exercise in well-practiced opacity. Hal put Rook in the mind of the famous Caravaggio painting. 

Hal commented idly that they needed some whiskey to go with the game. And, naturally, he couldn’t have said that beforehand. 

Hal had dealt the cards so it was Rook who opened, removing his other shoe.

“I raise you two socks.” Hal gave him a smile spelling: ‘See how extreme I can be.’ 

He didn’t take them off, Rook noted and saw no reason to put what Hal hadn’t on the table.

Rook fetched that bottle to stall for time, taking his cards with him and keeping an eye on Hal. He returned, filled their glasses and saw Hal’s bet.

Hal toasted at Rook with his drink. “Close enough… to good whiskey.”

He got rid of one card and Hal didn’t replace anything, his smile inscrutably superior. If he was practicing any sleight-of-hand, Rook hadn’t caught him at it. A frisson of excitement broke through Rook’s apprehension, but Hal didn’t need to know about that.

The second round of betting commenced and Rook removed his tie, folding it carefully.

“Why are you even _wearing_ a tie, you're on holiday!” Hal made a sly face. “I raise you... the pants.”

Rook's eyes widened. It was definitely his cue to fold but he had a very strong hand.

He saw Hal’s bet. “Cards on the table, shall we?” He lay his cards out one by one, revealing a full house.

Hal revealed a three. “Looks like you're lucky.”

Rook smiled - not without a hint of triumph. “Your, ahem, pants, please.” He sipped his whiskey expectantly.

“I'm afraid I can't take them off without going a little bit further than intended, so…” Hal rose and slowly unbuckled his belt. He unfastened the trousers and slid them to pool around his ankles. Then he stepped out of them and slowly glided his underwear down, never taking his eyes off of Rook's face.

Rook would have looked elsewhere if he hadn’t suspected this to be a ploy to distract him and meddle with the deck. Hal was... nicely-shaped, if that was even applicable. He chastised himself but continued watching as Hal put his trousers back on. He left the underwear on Rook’s chair and sat back down. 

Rook pointed out deliberately calmly: “You forgot the socks.”

Hal laughed. “Only if you promise not to pour any more tea on my feet.” He took them off.

“I promise.” He didn’t have any scalding tea within his immediate reach. 

He attempted to put his tie and shoes back on and use the clothing he had won for betting purposes but it turned out that Hal’s poker didn’t work that way. Rook insisted that they hardly had enough items for another two rounds of betting. Hal reminded him that he had agreed to play.

He ought to have scalding tea on his person at all times.

Rook took his time shuffling before dealing and Hal called _him_ a cardsharp teasingly. The tone was belied by a pointed look. 

The ante were their belts. Rook’s hand wasn’t as promising as he would have liked, but it didn’t scream: fold me! 

He hadn’t learnt from his past mistakes in the slightest, it seemed. 

Hal went in with the heavy artillery again, betting his shirt. He must be expecting Rook to drop the cards and jump out of the window already. He raised Hal his vest vindictively and Hal took off his jacket together with the shirt.

Rook was perfectly fine with undressing before bed or shower or when changing. Without Hal watching any of that. He put his jacket back on and replaced three cards. Hal once again didn’t replace anything. 

Rook took a long swig of whiskey. He planned to hold onto his jacket and, while the pants were a more intimate item, for the lack of a better term, the trousers covered more ground. He would almost have the suit on, after brief undressing

He bet his pants.

“All-In,” purred Hal, causing a sharp intake of breath in Rook. The innuendo had never left. Hal added sweetly, _sweetly_ that, since it was the last game, folding would be unsportsmanlike and therefore unacceptable.

Hal slowly laid the cards on the table and gave Rook a playful look.

Rook's jaw flexed. Hal’s cards weren’t brilliant but he had... absolutely nothing. “I keep the jacket, the trousers and the socks - you didn't have them on when you went All-In.”

Hal nodded and eyed him expectantly.

Rook downed his glass and stood up, straight-backed. He removed his trousers and his pants swiftly, without any of Hal’s exhibitionism, then put the trousers back on and returned to his seat immediately. The pants remained on the floor.

He buttoned up the jacket.

“Another game?” Hal smiled lazily.

Rook's skin heated. “You’re down to your trousers, for god’s sake!”

“Do you think he’s also after my trousers?” Hal flashed him a look of mock concern.

Rook had nothing to gain but he hated losing.

He lost his trousers in the next game. 

“You do know it's ridiculous to keep the jacket on when you've already taken off everything else?” Hal’s voice was full of mirth.

“I didn’t lose it,” he retorted.

Hal walked around the table and turned Rook’s chair around with him in it. “Of course you didn't.”

Rook gripped the armrests, staring at Hal as though he were a particularly poisonous snake. He kept his legs crossed. “What are you doing?”

Hal pulled away. “Looking at you. I thought that was obvious.”

Rook’s skin prickled with goosebumps, his body tense, almost rigid.

“Why does it make you feel uncomfortable?” Hal looked like he was fighting the urge to slam him against the wall and fuck him senseless, and Rook really shouldn’t find it so easy to read between those lines. “Or is it the other way round? Perhaps you're actually enjoying it.”

He glared at Hal. “Oh, clearly I have been waiting for this unforgettable experience my entire life.” He refilled his glass.

“This is exactly what your life has lacked, Dominic.” Hal slowly lowered himself on his knees. “By now you should already admit that.”

Rook breathed out: “Perhaps.” Seeing Hal in that position never failed to excite him. “Or perhaps not.”

Hal shifted a bit closer, but made no move to touch Rook in any way. “For someone whose job it has been to maintain the balance between worlds, your life has remarkably lacked that same balance.”

He fought to stay completely still, holding the eye contact. “It was never a priority. And if the circumstances were different, it wouldn't be an issue at all.”

Hal's look slid all over him before returning to his eyes. “ _How_ different?”

“If I hadn't spent a length of time in your marvellous company,” Rook confessed, with great reluctance.

Hal drawled: “Would you say this has been a good turn of events or a bad one?”

Rook's answering smile was sardonic. “It has certainly been very illuminating, beyond good and bad.”

Hal leaned closer, his breath ghosting over Rook's skin. “I shall take that as a well-deserved compliment.”

He had only himself to blame for playing Hal's twisted games. The problem was that on some level he did enjoy them. The constant exercises in willpower, the never-ending tug of war. 

While his face stayed somewhat composed, he knew that his body language was betraying the extent of his frustration.

Hal finally pulled away and refilled his whiskey glass, making no attempts whatsoever to get decent. Rook hadn't spilled any whiskey on Hal yet. He glanced at the fireplace. Yes, he would drench Hal in whiskey, set him on fire and then print the devil summoning story in the only paper that was still being published.

“Are you thinking of a way to kill me?” Hal folded his arms over his chest. “You're wearing your ‘Kill Hal’ face.”

Rook snorted. “No, it's merely the default of anyone who's met you.” 

“Why haven't you gone up to your room to pray for your sins yet?” Hal asked irritably.

“Repenting is such a lonely business.” 

Rook collected his clothes. He felt Hal’s eyes on him as he marched upstairs.

He took a long shower, just letting the water run. He couldn't concentrate on his book so he opened his organiser and wrote down the list of things they had been up to, including but not limited to murder and strip poker. Then he stared at it in disbelief.

If he let this gleeful corruption continue, one day he would indeed stop recognising himself at all and it would have nothing to do with drinking blood. His fingers tightened around the pen. Perhaps he held onto it because it was the only piece of his human life he had reclaimed.

The most devastating thing about the new world order wasn't collapsing the previous one like a stack of dominoes. It was rendering all of Rook's past efforts null and void. Futile. Useless. Damaging. The things he had told himself when having people removed from the equation no longer excused his actions because the truth had come into light regardless. 

He had started questioning what should have been absolute. Had his past efforts truly done more good than harm? Had he been protecting humanity or keeping it corralled like cattle ready for slaughter? He could no longer be certain. He had lost his convictions, whether he wanted it or not.

The terrible admission that through upholding the status quo Rook had prevented humanity from ever being prepared to defend itself made him jolt from his chair and pace around the room. 

He felt profoundly lost.

* * *

Hal had gone hungry long enough. He had taken a sip from the boy’s wrist the night before, but it wasn’t enough. He went out and drained the first person he met – a non-descript middle-aged man. He was in no mood for any particular games. Playing with Rook was both exhausting and fulfilling. Blood warmed him up and pushed back the strange thoughts that he was having. He wasn't ruining Rook per se, only contributing to the downfall that had started many years before they even met.

Hal thought back to Rook's question about nightmares. He never did answer it. His nightmares were varied but he seldom remembered them in detail. There was one, though. He would find himself locked in a cage during a dogfight, but instead of transforming into a monster, the dog transformed back into a human. Back into Leo who looked at Hal with angry, judgmental eyes. Hal would attack and Leo would dodge. They danced around each other until Hal finally sank his teeth into Leo's throat and ripped it out. He drank greedily, letting the blood hollow him out and burn, burn his insides, grind him to dust. He would wake up with a silent scream tearing itself out of his mouth and he would forcibly push the dream away, drink until he couldn't drink anymore, execute somebody, fuck and curse like it was his new routine.

He returned to the hotel late at night. The owner must have run off for fear that he wouldn't let her go. The whole town felt like a snapshot of a dystopia. Hal rummaged through the fridge, found some food and started cooking it. He ended up making some mutant cross between Shepherd's pie and lasagna. The other frying pan had pancakes in it. The quantity of food in the pantry was surprising, especially considering the woman’s claims that she was out of this and that. Perhaps she was hoarding supplies for the resistance. Normally it merited an investigation, but Hal just couldn’t be bothered this time.

Rook peeked into the kitchen curiously. He glanced at the pots and pans, then at Hal.

“I didn't know you cooked.”

“I do a lot of things when I'm bored, and not all of them are despicably evil.” Hal gestured at him to take a seat.

Rook pressed his fork to the pie. It sagged a bit, and the stuffing oozed out. Rook cut off a slice and chewed thoughtfully. He praised it guardedly, looking oddly subdued. For Christ’s sake! Hal could _smell_ the guilt on him. He must have been beating himself up again while Hal had been away.

“Dominic.” Hal sat down and interlaced his fingers, eyeing Rook intently. “I don't usually do this without any ulterior motive – but do you want to talk?”

Rook's eyes focused on Hal.

“Yes, but...” He let out a tiny sigh. “Yes, I do want to talk.” He crossed his arms defensively. “If, if the DoDD and the likes of us hadn't been so busy with the smoke and mirrors, humanity could have been prepared. Could have been ready to defend itself. We weren't protecting them, we were locking them in the same dark closet with the boogeymen.”

_And you've only just realised it?_ Hal tried not to let the question show on his face. “Do you believe in prophecies?”

Rook must have read that question anyway. He flinched. “Not particularly, why?”

“Well, suppose you were told in advance what was coming. Suppose you knew from the start, from the day your agency was founded. Would that have changed anything?”

“Of course, it would have!” Rook said vehemently. “Appropriate... measures would have been taken.”

Hal laughed.

“No. You would have dismissed it because the future cannot be foretold.”

Rook grimaced and massaged his temples. “For a moment I thought you were going to mention that child... the supposed saviour.”

Hal blinked, genuinely taken aback.

“You know about...” He cleared his throat. “Of course you do. There are rumours in the resistance.”

“Do _you_ believe in prophecies?” Rook's gaze was sharp, almost demanding.

“Are you asking me if I believe that she will save the world?” Hal chuckled. He enjoyed the naïveté of the miracle child’s ever-growing flock. “No. But she may try.” She would remain their new symbol. People needed symbols. People needed to believe someone else would come and save them. Only this child never would because they would find her and kill her. “Anyway, my original point was that it was nowhere near your bloody fault, Dominic.” Hal popped a small slice of the pie into his mouth. “You did what you thought was the right thing. Just as they... we did what we thought was best for us.”

Rook lapsed into silence. Perhaps he wanted Hal to convince him and to have that weight lifted off his shoulders. He whispered:

“I wish I had done some good. Something I wouldn't doubt now.”

Hal had no idea what to say to that, but his lips moved before he could review what he was saying. “Get in a line.” His voice was quiet, barely perceptible. His eyes widened a bit. He sat still as if the world would collapse if he moved. Rook met Hal's eyes, equally frozen in shock. His hands moved across the table as if by their own volition, grasping Hal's.

For a moment, Hal was back in Southend, sitting at the table, while Pearl was fussing in the kitchen, making that same pie. Leo was reading a paper across from him and commenting on the headlines. Maybe it was 1957 when the Russians sent a dog into space. Or 1981 when the Fourth Doctor left the series. Or 1997 when Princess Diana died in a carcrash and Pearl cried. The date didn't matter. The decades that he'd spent with them were rolled into a single endless moment that he struggled so hard to erase. He wished there was some medicine that he could take to make himself forget all that. He pulled away all of a sudden and walked out of the kitchen. He sat down on the stairs and leaned against the wall. He had no business losing control like this. It was too close to admitting that he was not living the life he had chosen for himself.

Hal took a deep breath. No, he was not going to let this happen now. Two years since they left him. Why would he dwell on it? He got up and returned to the kitchen.

“I'm going to get that promised clifftop view of the beach. Hunt down some moonlight if I'm lucky.” He flashed Rook his usual charming smile. “Care to join me?”

Rook acted as though nothing had happened.

“Moonlight hunting - how could I refuse that?”

Hal didn’t fail to notice that he snatched a bottle of brandy from the bar to take for the ride. Marvellous idea, it was.

* * *

Moonlight charted paths on the water. Night painted everything black: the rolling sea, the smooth, glassy sand, sharp rocks jutting out of it; only the light was sharp and white and conveniently stripped of poetry. Rook had never had time to watch the scenery but he'd had more than enough shadows and silence.

“Why is it so important to you? To do good?” It appeared Hal was back to his favourite tune. “You're not that selfless a person, Dominic. If you think you are, you're deceiving yourself.”

“Why is it so important to you to convince everyone there is no good left in the world?” Rook parried.

“Because there isn't! I'm not trying to convince _everyone_. I just don't want my recruits' minds to be clouded by illusions.”

Rook stood on a cliff's edge, looking down, the wind stirring his coat. Even vampires needed hope. A drink wasn’t always enough.

“Hope is for those uncertain of their future,” Hal said. “We have already won. Our future is set.” He stepped closer. “What do you _want_ , Dominic?”

Rook loathed that future with a burning in his chest he couldn't extinguish. There was no noble purpose to lull him into complacency. He looked ahead and saw no end to the people he would kill directly or indirectly and other, subtler monstrosities he would no doubt commit. The humans, whom he'd sworn to protect, would perish, and with them the last tatters of his own humanity.

“Nothing.”

Hal gripped the collar of his shirt and moved him closer to the cliff's edge as though intending to throw him off. Even a vampire couldn't survive that.

“That is a lie. And if it's not, then you're a fool. You think you've lost something? You've got no idea what real loss feels like. And you won't, not until you rebuild yourself from scratch and get shattered again and again. Would you like me to kill you now, Dominic? So that you could die like most of your colleagues, a coward? They begged, you know. They swore to leave their childish ideals behind and serve the new regime. See how much your _greater good_ meant to them? We killed them all. We recruited those who showed teeth even before they became vampires. Like you. Like that girl Fergus had his eyes set on. She staked two of his men before he even got to her jugular.” Hal chuckled darkly. “I made you. I can just as easily destroy you. I can destroy the very memory of you. Do you want that? Is that enough of _nothing_ for you?”

“It is a shame that my colleagues had to act in that fashion, although it is only human. But you're mistaken if you think I ever aspired to be remembered by anyone.”

Rook narrowed his eyes. There was a third option – to take Hal with him. It would be a setback to the regime. However, no one was irreplaceable and the next ruler would only be hungrier.

“I want to keep my dignity.”

Hal knew what he was thinking of course. It was clear as day and it must have occurred to him as well. He took Rook's hand and placed it on his chest, curling Rook's fingers so that Rook was holding a fistful of Hal's shirt.

“Go on then. If you think this could be your one good deed. Perhaps Mr Snow would have some difficulty finding a replacement.”

Rook's fist clenched convulsively. His practical side whispered that they were going to hell, both of them. Why take the express route?

“I do not believe it a good deed to kill my own maker.” There, he said it.

The beach below was wreathed in pale, misty spray of the sea. The fall looked long and the landing hard.

Hal's breath hitched. He moved back, pulling them both away from the cliff.

“You'd be surprised.”

Rook exhaled loudly. “Hal.” He didn't actually know where he was going with that. The whole affair was shaping up to be a pretty ugly mess. He picked up the brandy bottle from the car, took a swig and offered it to Hal silently. Hal accepted. There were no problems that couldn't be cured by a drink. At least that was the official vampire ideology. Well, at least the moonlight seemed pretty.

* * *

Surviving the first two days-off had arguably prepared Rook for the third one. As always, he was amazed to observe how easily Hal transitioned back to his suave, relaxed self, the eternal child looking for entertainment. Today’s idea of fun was tame by Hal’s standards: driving around and visiting what few museums were open in town. Rook realised soon enough that visiting historical sites and pointing out inaccuracies was yet another way of asserting Hal’s superiority. Still, he enjoyed Hal’s commentary, including saucy anecdotes, and the day passed in a leisurely, innocuous fashion. As the evening drew closer and the time to return to the capital along with it, Rook discovered he was almost reluctant to see this end. He shouldn’t be. His peculiar attachment to the man was starting to get the better of him and he found it momentously alarming.

“You should accompany me next time I go to France,” Hal said. He was at the wheel. The radio played some classical music. Dark landscape whizzed by in a blur, not a single flicker of light in sight, not even the oncoming traffic. “We would have proper dessert.” It was hard to tell by the look on Hal's face whether he meant pastries or women. Most likely both.

Rook was going to bring up his workload and the state affairs. He found himself saying instead: “I should like to.”

He started when he felt Hal’s fingers curl around his wrist.

“Careful driving,” he pointed out.

Hal flashed him a carefree smile.

“I don’t need both hands to drive.” He rubbed the tattered wristlet of Rook’s watch. So that was what had caught the magpie’s attention. “How old is this thing?” He was still holding Rook's hand with no intention of letting go. “And how much did it cost?”

“I... don't seem to recall.” Rook frowned. “It feels as though I've always had it.”

Hal unfastened it. “You are in dire need of a new one.”

Rook turned to look at Hal properly.

“Be that as it may, I like my watch well enough.” He caught it before Hal could steal it.

Hal intercepted his hand.

“I had better keep my eyes on the road, Dominic. And my hand on the wheel.”

The watch fell and rolled under the seat. Rook tried to imagine Hal wasn't there at all. It was easy if he looked in the mirror. It almost felt like he’d gone mad enough to have a chat with an imaginary friend.

“Is it a gift?” Hal asked.

Rook picked the watch up, placing it back on his wrist.

“Not from me to you.”

It was heartwarming to see he could really say no and Hal would go along with it. For the time being, he supposed.

The rest of the way went by in silence.

As did the following months of another drab, lingering London winter leading up to the second anniversary of the glorious revolution.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer:** _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.  
>  **A/N:** Welcome to Part II where characters lose jobs, lives and occasional principles!

**Part II: Stopwatch**

**Chapter 6**

Cutler was in Rook's office besieging him about his public image and other miscellaneous matters. 

He flinched into awareness at the snap of Cutler's fingers. “Excuse me, I was…” 

He cast about for something that could have plausibly occupied his mind and spotted the obvious irregularity: an open pack of Jaffa cakes had appeared near the right corner of his desk. 

Cutler snorted and finished for him: "Daydreaming. It happens.” He sounded downright malicious. “Perhaps you need another road trip. You never did share with the rest of the class how you’d spent your big adult weekend.”

Winter had turned into spring, if in name only, and Cutler was still bitter about the whole affair. That was the problem with their kind: short attention span pitted against the inability to let go.

Rook checked the desk drawer: Cutler had indeed been filching his emergency stash in front of him without him noticing. 

He said through gritted teeth: “Back to the matters at hand, if you don't mind.” 

"Oh, I expect your hand will be awfully busy in the near future... with signing all that paperwork.” Cutler paused theatrically. “Why, what did you think I was going to say?"

It couldn’t have escaped Cutler’s notice that ever since their return Hal had gone out of his way to keep Rook’s hands free of anything _but_ paperwork.

Rook leaned over the desk, attempting to salvage the last biscuit, but the heinous pilferer evaded him. “Finders keepers, Dommy.”

“Not if they’re finders of Jaffa cakes that don’t belong to them.” He circled around the desk intently, armed with his pen.

Cutler took a step back, blinking. “Wait a moment, you’re not going to murder me over nibbles, are you?”

Rook said sweetly: “Isn’t that how family works, Cutler?”

Cutler held up the biscuit between them. “Look, the sponge is me.” Rook paused. “The jelly is you, I suppose. Tangy. And Hal’s the chocolate because he… keeps the family pressed tightly together, whether we want it or not.” Cutler grinned. “How do you like my metaphor? It’s absolutely not a thinly veiled hint at anything.”

Cutler could scarcely be seen wearing a tie to his day-to-day work. Perhaps he didn’t want to tempt people into gagging him with it.

Rook snatched the biscuit away and put it back into the pack, restoring it to its place in the drawer. He held up his palm. “And now the key, please.”

“You’re such a miser, Scrook.” Cutler let it drop with great reluctance. “You come over and listen to my music, don’t you? For free, no strings attached. And I don’t even make you watch me dance around to it.”

Rook locked the drawer. “If your dancing matches your singing, it’s not as much of a torture as you seem to believe.”

Cutler blinked again. “Oh my god, was that a compliment?”

“My biscuits are _off-limits_.” Rook fixed him with a flinty stare “The next time I catch you at it, you’ll wish you were repainting walls.”

He was referring to the incident during which he had been forced to mediate between Fergus and Cutler after Cutler's recruit had drawn something cubist on the palace wall, right on the eve of Hetty's return. Fergus had been shouting that he 'will fucking stake the pipsquad' and Cutler making speeches on the subject of ‘freedom of artistic expression’. Rook ended up personally supervising Cutler and his recruit repaint the wall.

“Well, that just means I won’t let you catch me.” Cutler winked.

After he left, Rook recalled another conversation - the one they’d had in November.

“You see, I don’t really _like_ Hal,” Cutler had been saying conversationally. “And I’m not going to throw a hissy fit about you two having a spot of fun under a rock. Well, maybe a little - purely on principle. But the thing is I don’t actually mind Hal divvying up his amazing powers of making your life a living hell. How does the saying go? Misery loves bad company.”

“Technically speaking,” Rook had replied. “It was on a rock and in the general vicinity of rocks. But not under. And that’s all I’m going to disclose.”

* * *

Winter ended in a wet explosion of drizzle that painted bleary stains on misted over windows, making the city behind them look fantastically disheartening. Hetty was returning for the celebrations, which meant that Hal could most likely expect some nasty payback for the previous droll trick with the visa. He doubled his personal security just in case. Too bad he couldn't just clone Fergus.

Preparations for official events were perhaps the only thing Hal found drearier than the events themselves. Eventually his ennui got the best of him, and he decided to alleviate it by unexpectedly turning up at Cutler's quarters. Cutler was out, so Hal positioned himself on the bed with an issue of Regus's secretly published comics that Cutler secretly collected. He kept them in a shoebox under his bed, which was more than a little ridiculous but endearingly adolescent.

The protagonist, a quirky and overpowered vampire superhero bearing more than a passing resemblance to the author, was just about to single-handedly defeat an entire pack of werewolves standing between him and the shy, buxom librarian eager to find herself in his fervent embrace when Cutler entered the room and promptly froze on the doorstep.

“It's not what you think!” he blurted out.

“Oh, don't worry, I won't breathe a word to Regus.” Hal grinned. “I have to say his artwork has improved.” That girlfriend of his he had insisted on recruiting must be a real inspiration.

“Oh.” Cutler breathed out in relief. “Yes. Anyway, I only read it to accumulate joke material.”

“Of course.” Hal lowered his eyes back to the comic book as if he'd come here to read it. “He does draw better than your little plaything.”

Cutler scowled. “Like you understand modern art.” He demonstratively snatched the comic book away from Hal and put it back into his stash.

Hal gave him the look of utter shock.

“Did you just accuse me of not understanding _art_?”

Cutler stood with his arms akimbo. “Yes, I did. You're still stuck in the Middle Ages. In this day and age, voluptuous maidens and tortured saints aren’t art.” He failed to dodge the pillow that Hal sent flying in his face, and it muffled the next round of verbal projectiles. “Don't you have some other bed to invade?”

Hal huffed. First Cutler insulted him, then he told him to leave. What was the world coming to? He got off the bed and headed unhurriedly for the door.

“Hal, wait.” He felt Cutler’s grip on his forearm. “What are you really here for?”

“Well, I've already read all the books in the library and decided to raid your stash of trash novels and pulp comic books.” Hal turned around, looking at him with a playful smile.

Sometimes he did miss how uncomplicated Cutler was, especially compared to Rook. He seemed to have forgotten the punishment Hal had dealt him before leaving. Hal supposed he did miss him. That didn't excuse Cutler's actions of course, but Hal was willing to suspend any further chastisement for the time being.

Cutler trailed his hand down the front of Hal’s shirt, his fingers stopping at the belt buckle. He went down on his knees like a worshipper paying tributes. He always looked particularly good in this position, with that raw need in his eyes. Perhaps that was what really helped him get away with something every now and then. A cheeky comment here, a recruit there...

Cutler's mouth was hot and welcoming and his fingers dug into Hal’s thigh with a desperate need for ownership. Before long, he was straddling Hal, rocking his hips with growing urgency. Hal trailed his fingers down Cutler's spine, almost gently, making him tilt his head up, and bit his neck. Cutler was strangely silent today, but blood always spoke for itself.

Still, it was rewarding to hear Cutler say his name. No one ever did it quite like Cutler in the heat of passion. That was what he wanted from Rook, and he was not getting it. Then again, he enjoyed the differences between Cutler and Rook. Perhaps he shouldn't strive to eradicate them.

Cutler slumped bonelessly on the bed. Hal watched the bedspread crease and fold around him, his skin smeared with blood and sweat. He smiled flippantly and then affected the most innocent expression he could muster under the circumstances.

“Does this mean you will write my speech for the anniversary?”

Cutler made a sound that was a cross between a snort and a sigh.

“I _knew_ you had an ulterior motive.”

* * *

Whilst the year had seemed interminable, the anniversary was upon them like all such things: a little too quickly. 

Rook sat on the windowsill with his legs stretched out. There was a parade planned and he was supposed to be present, but he was reluctant to face the music.

Hal showed up unexpectedly, addressing him a bright smile. He had been half hoping that Hal had forgotten where his office was. “Mr Home Secretary. How come you're not at the parade yet?”

“My lord.” He checked his watch. “I was just about to go, in fact.” 

He hadn’t known Hal was so invested in the event as to herd his staff to it personally.

“Somebody hasn't been checking deliveries.” Hal poked around the things that had been sent in lately. Some were bribes, some were gifts. He fished out a small case and approached Rook, opening it to reveal a beautiful and expensive Rolex.

Rook’s eyes widened, and he said immediately: “I couldn't possibly!” 

What was Hal playing at this time? Rook would be attending the parade either way, without any extravagant incentives, and he didn’t need to be recompensed for anything. But then Hal might have set his sights on some future event that Rook ought to start dreading.

“You don't like it?” Hal frowned. “I thought I had a good idea of what might be to your liking, but if it's not, I can change it.”

Rook sighed irritably. “It's not that, Hal. It's the fact of you giving me such a lavish present.” 

Hal himself might not have come from Greece - but his gifts qualified as such.

“Rubbish.” Hal took off Rook's old watch and put the Rolex on. “It looks good on you.”

It was silvery to match his prefered grey clothes and had virtually no inlay unlike other garish models. It fit as though it had always been there - and much better than its predecessor. 

“It’s very... tasteful.” And suspiciously tame, by Hal’s standards. He would even go so far as to say it was the most thoughtful, not to mention the most expensive gift he had ever received, regardless of Hal’s current agenda. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Hal stood effectively blocking Rook's way, not letting him get off the sill. He leaned to look down at the street, pressing himself closer to Rook. “You've got a good view here. We shall be able to see it all when it begins. It's about to.”

“Oh dear, we _are_ going to be late!” He attempted to steer Hal away. “Hal - I am very grateful and I shall get you something in return first thing in the morning - but we really should go.”

“We should?” Hal looked at him enigmatically. “Says who?”

Rook reminded him: “It is customary - and only appropriate - for the heads of state to be present during such events.”

“We shall be present. Eventually.” Hal craned out his neck for a better look. “Oh, look, there's the march. It's begun.”

“You’ve got a special talent for upsetting order.” Rook turned away and propped himself up on his knees to watch.

“So do you.” Hal’s hand trailed up Rook's hip, giving him shivers. 

“Do I?” It occurred to him that he couldn't have assumed a _more_ inviting position.

“Yes.” 

Hal pressed closer, winding his arms around Rook, and placed his hand on Rook's belt buckle. 

Rook rested his palms against the glass, watching but not seeing anything. 

Hal slipped his hand under the waistband of Rook's underwear. “Look at all those people down there. They're really none the worse for it. A bit more bloodshed, sure, but on the whole, humans always survive like the parasites they are.” He squeezed harder. “Adaptable to anything.”

Hal's words sank through his skin and spread underneath like poison. That, or fresh blood. He gritted his teeth and clenched his hands into fists. “Manipulation through fear and occasional boons. They’re already forgetting it used to be any different. I wouldn’t call the state they've been reduced to 'none the worse'.”

Hal pressed his lips to the back of his neck, as if counting the vertebrae. “Stop making excuses for them, Dominic. You were never one of them.”

Rook shuddered, and whispered in a raw voice: “It had rather been my tragedy.”

“No, it hadn't been. Imagine being part of the cattle. A dumb, obedient animal.” Hal nipped at his neck. “Ripe for the slaughter.”

“As opposed to ripe for this?” He turned to glare at Hal. 

But if he were to be completely honest with himself, he had rarely thought much of anyone. Humanity was difficult to appreciate on the individual scale.

“ _This_ is just something that brings us both pleasure.” He could hear the smirk in Hal’s voice as the hand moved slower and then faster again.

He swallowed a soft moan. “Too much.”

Hal whispered against his skin: “There is no such thing as ‘too much’. Only ‘not enough’.”

Rook reached behind himself and gripped Hal's thigh. “Show me.”

Hal pulled him down from the sill and undressed him briskly. Music from the parade thundered below the window like a tide. He had lived his entire life holding something back. Perhaps he should try the opposite, for once.

Hal sank his teeth into Rook’s shoulder, the drumbeat from below rolling through their bodies. That was vampire gentleness.

Outside, the world looked a bit like _The Wall_ , evoking instinctive trepidation, perfectly matched by what Rook had just consented to.

* * *

The parade continued - and would continue until Hal arrived. Back at the stand, Hetty found it amusing that Hal was suddenly missing - along with the Home Secretary. She muttered, loud enough for those closest to her to hear: "They must be shagging. Either that, or Hal's afraid of me."

Cutler muttered under his breath: “Both. Definitely both.” He stepped forward and delivered the speech. He had written it, so the world needed to hear it.

* * *

Hal had gone still, struggling to catch his breath. 

Rook turned around abruptly, not giving Hal any time to recompose himself. His knees buckled, but it paid off tenfold. Hal’s eyes were wide and gleaming and his lips parted, satisfaction and yet more hunger written all over him. He cupped the back of Rook’s head and pulled him into a fierce kiss.

It might not be the most pleasurable of their trysts but it was certainly educational. Rook trailed his hands down the sides of Hal's face, along his shoulders and arms, feeling muscle and tendon and bone. He had to remind himself that Hal wasn’t the consolation prize he sometimes appeared to be.

Hal slammed him against the wall without breaking the kiss. Whatever had come over him, Rook had caused it. He had made Hal lose all the pretenses, if only for a short while. It had to count.

His fangs grazed Hal's tongue, the taste of blood never leaving their mouths. His limbs tightened around Hal, holding him close, keeping him trapped. 

Hal moaned. He was still mostly dressed in comparison and Rook tore at his clothes, heedless of the damage. Hal didn’t seem to care.

He shoved at Hal, pushing him away, and Hal flung most of his things off the desk. Paperwork scattered all over the floor, pens and paper clips raining down. Oh, he shouldn't have done that. 

Hal pulled himself up to sit on the desk, lay back and parted his legs invitingly. His face was more animated than Rook had ever seen it. 

Rook snarled, his eyes black and his fangs out. If they were keeping a score - and of course they were - Rook was going to win this round.

* * *

“I was told you had missed the parade." Mr Snow's voice was as calm and ingratiating as ever. Hal couldn't figure out whether Snow was angry or not.

“I was delayed.”

They had apparently fallen asleep. An explosion of fireworks had jolted him awake. He had tiptoed over to the window and peeked out. The sky had been painted a deep, appetizing shade of red.

"I'm sure the circumstances were very demanding." Hal suppressed a snort. They had been, _very_ much so. "You have had your fun with Hetty, by the way. I don't want you to send her away again."

“She is trying to kill one of my most trusted lieutenants,” Hal protested.

"It's up to you to protect him then. Hetty stays."

Hal put down the receiver and cursed. Vindictive little bitch, Hetty was. If the circumstances had been different, perhaps they would have even got along.

Hal met with Fergus and told him Hetty was staying. Then he decided to pay Mr Home Secretary a visit. Rook was out. Hal lowered himself into the chair and waited. The office held no traces of what had transpired last night. All the writing utensils were aligned in perfect symmetry, leaving nothing for Hal to tinker with. The window was open and the room was well-aired. Rook was very good at eliminating the evidence.

The man himself presented a no less orderly picture upon his entrance. He paused for a moment, hovering on the doorstep, then shut the door carefully and wished Hal a good morning.

“There is nothing good about it, I assure you,” Hal said dryly, and continued without a preamble: “I want you to get rid of Hetty. I don't care how you're going to do it, just get it done. Make it an internal security matter or something. I will not have her on my soil longer than it takes to stake her.”

“I'll see what I can do, my lord,” Rook answered. “It might take some time.” Knowing Rook, he needed most of it to consider if Hal was setting him up to take the fall for Hetty's potential demise.

“Time is of the essence, Dominic. I have known Fergus for over one hundred and fifty years and he has been nothing but loyal. I don't intend to lose him now over some stupid argument.” Hal added: “I don't care if you have her killed or shipped off to Antarctica. Just as long as she is _not_ here.”

He left without another word.

He had to admit he was curious how Rook would go about solving this problem. If he pinned Hetty's death on the resistance, Hal could use it as an excuse to tighten the screws on the resettlement camps. If he pinned it on someone on the inside, he would have to present the scapegoat for the inevitable retribution. Rook’s narcoleptic conscience might actually protest against that. It would be ideal if Hetty were simply to be swept under the rug. No witnesses, no evidence, and a cold trail.

Hetty’s favourite hobby had always been to pose as a human child, and these days she had to take trips to the countryside for such quality entertainment. Within the week that followed someone appeared to have conveniently tipped off one of the werewolf groups that weren't allied with the human resistance. That, in Hal's opinion, was genius. Nothing pointed at the Home Office's involvement, no shadows were cast on Hal himself. It was an accident - and Hal appreciated most of all that the last time he had seen Hetty she had been wearing a red dress. A charming modern retelling of _The Little Red Riding Hood_. He summoned Rook to his quarters.

“You look tired, Dominic.”

Rook had dark circles under his eyes that gave him quite a vampiric look.

“I feel fine, thank you.”

Hal approached him and brushed his fingers over the knot of Rook's tie.

“Efficient as always. Is there anything you can't do?”

Rook chuckled, startled. “Not outside of my work, no.” It must be nice to have his efforts appreciated.

“It's good that you're not shielding yourself with false modesty.” Hal slipped his hand into his pocket and held a familiar stopwatch out to Rook. Rook's fingers curled around the watch and he put it back into his own pocket, where it belonged.

“Thank you.”

Hal nodded. “You're welcome.” He returned to his desk. “Go eat something. Or someone. You justify the myths that claim vampires are ghoulish creatures.”

He let Rook go without any tricks this time. Even he occasionally had to actually work. Besides, he wanted Dominic to come back on his own terms. Hal had already figured out that letting Dominic think that something was _his_ idea usually yielded remarkable results.

* * *

Rook's office had been invaded in his absence - a disturbing pattern right there. He clearly needed a more diligent PA.

"So, you can make people disappear just like that, Mr Copperfield?" Cutler snapped his fingers, spinning about in Rook's executive chair. 

Rook gave him a dark look. “You’re still here, are you not, Cutler?”

"Don't worry, mate, your little secret is safe with me.” Cutler made a show of zipping up his mouth. It was a shame Rook couldn’t actually make that happen. “Personally, I think it was rather crafty. Never liked the snotty bitch anyway."

Rook hadn’t expected any different from him. He pulled out his stopwatch. “You have got one minute to make yourself scarce, Cutler.”

“Oh, that’s a new one.” Cutler got up and peered at it curiously. “A bit of a step down from the Rolex but then, can’t have all the cars and yachts at once, right?” Rook moved the watch out of Cutler’s reach when he attempted to touch it. “No, it must be a souvenir from the good old triple-D days. Feeling nostalgic again?”

Rook watched the seconds tick away impassively.

“Fancy that, now he's all high and mighty again!" Cutler brushed past him, murmuring, "Not so long ago you were, well, a rookie."

Rook didn't deign a comment. “Time's up, Cutler.” He took Cutler by the scruff of his shirt and dragged him out. “You shouldn't enter my office uninvited.” He closed the door on Cutler’s comeback.

He returned to his desk. Cutler had repositioned everything but the pencil stand by an inch. _Crafty_. He started putting everything back in order.

When he sat down, something sharp bit into his thigh. “ _Cutler_!” It was a set of pins.

At least there hadn’t been any glue involved. His optimism lasted until he opened the desk drawers and discovered a minefield of ‘souvenirs’, ranging from peanut shells to cigarette ashes to used bubble gum. “Oh, for God's sake!”

He jolted to his feet and stormed off to the window, lighting a cigarette. He couldn't work in these conditions! And this after the trying clean-up!

Cutler's domestic terrorism disrupted his entire day and he left early, retreating into the library. On the way, he was struck by a terrible suspicion about the origin of his earlier laptop troubles.

* * *

"How very convenient," Snow remarked when Hal recounted to him the circumstances of Hetty's demise. "And how very tragic. She was such a lovely girl."

 _Lovely_ wasn't the first word Hal would choose to describe Hetty, but he didn't argue.

“Where are you these days?”

"It's a surprise."

Hal cautiously checked the corridor, just in case Snow was standing outside his door. Snow laughed.

"No, Hal, I am not _that_ transparent."

The conversation had made Hal completely paranoid. He stationed secret police everywhere, and only half of it was on the alert for the resistance, while the other half was supposed to report to him if Snow should appear. Snow's surprise visits were really getting on Hal's nerves. The Old One had liked Hetty, and even though Hal did everything he could to convince him it had been an accident, he wondered if there was some retribution in store for him regardless.

To calm his frazzled nerves Hal withdrew into the library. It was empty; lately Regus had been rather neglectful of his duties in favour of romance. There was a sofa in the corner of the room heaped up with plaid blankets. Hal burrowed into them with a tattered copy of Dostoyevsky’s _The Gambler_ from his personal collection and read quietly until his solitude was disturbed by Rook. The man clearly hadn’t noticed him and Hal didn’t bother catching his attention.

Looking around, Rook snatched a colourful book from a shelf and settled down to read in one of the chairs by Regus's desk. Hal quietly peeked out of blankets. _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_? He burrowed back in, making sure that even if he spoke, it would be difficult to tell at once where his voice was coming from. He waited for a few minutes until Rook was sufficiently immersed in the book, and then remarked:

“Your taste in literature seems to be degrading, Dominic. Should I be concerned?”

Rook started. “Goodness!” He looked around and fixed his gaze on the talking pile of blankets. “Now I know whom Cutler inherited his fondness for pranks from. If I find any more bubble gum in my office, I might blow up the blood storage myself.”

Hal's head emerged from the pile. “Bubble gum?” He laughed. “That's adorable. But I'll have you know that as much as I enjoy unsettling you, I wasn't specifically waiting for you here.”

“You meant 'deplorable', surely.” Rook sighed and waved the book in mid-air. “Not a word of this to anyone.” He put it aside and walked up to the sofa. Hal shuffled aside, letting him sit down.

Rook removed his jacket and his vest and set them aside. He seemed overwrought, and determined not to show it. It made his eyes even brighter. He turned to Hal, every bit an army commander leading a thousand men into battle, and kissed him hastily. Hal raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. Well, feigning ninety per cent of surprise. The rest was genuine. He carefully put the book away and gave Rook a daring look.

“I think we could put that stopwatch of yours to some creative use.”

Rook pulled the item out of his pocket, a startled smile tugging at his lips. “I'm open to suggestions.”

Rook made quite the opponent in every field Hal engaged him in. The pupil was clearly trying to surpass the teacher. Hal half-detested and half-enjoyed the fact that Rook was so eager to throw Hal’s own dirty moves back at him, but there was nothing surprising about it: he acquired this boldness the same way he had acquired his fangs.

“I remember we talked about going to France,” said Hal, afterwards. He stood on his knees on the sofa, caught Rook by the wrist and pulled him closer, effectively interfering with his attempts to get dressed. “How about next weekend? Unless...” He sucked on Rook's earlobe playfully. “You've got other plans and I can't...” he swept his tongue over the rim of Rook's ear, “change your mind.”

Behind them something fell. Hal looked over Rook's shoulder and saw Regus who accidentally dropped a stack of papers. The Vampire Recorder paled and hunched his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, I'm just.... I'm gonna... go," he mumbled, and withdrew as swiftly as though he had had magical aid. Hal burst out laughing.

“Oh, people _will_ talk.”

“They have been talking ever since we failed to show up at that parade,” Rook pointed out crossly. Doubtless he belonged to those men who hated it when their private life became public, but here it was a consequence of _having_ a private life.

“No, Dominic, they have been talking since I recruited you.” Hal sat back on the sofa, unabashedly naked. “Guessing, wondering, gambling. It keeps them entertained. You know, since we sort of... ate most of Hollywood.”

Rook pursed his lips. He couldn't argue with that.

“I never cared for Hollywood either way.”

“Remind me to further your cultural education when I've got a spare minute. Mind you, Hollywood as it was when we started this glorious revolution fully deserved its fate.” Hal wrinkled his nose. “But if you are unfamiliar with the Golden Age, then... we shall have to correct that unfortunate mistake.”

“Fair enough. Rook splayed his fingers over Hal's chest and whispered into his ear: “Always looking forward to getting... _educated_.”

* * *

If there was something to be said for the blood storage room at the Château Fangs, it was a perfect spot for an ambush.

Regus puttered in, took a bottle and drank like someone was going to take it away from him any second now.

“Burn the libraries down!” Cutler jumped from out of the corner, grinning smugly, a half-empty bottle in his hands. Every superhero needed a supervillain and suchlike, never mind that Cutler deserved a whole league better.

Regus dropped the bottle. “Fuck me! Don't do that, you bloody wanker!”

“Ouch.” He laughed. “What got you so worked up, Team Edward? You look like something’s just scared the living daylights out of you.” He would have been pleased if it had been him.

Regus glowered at him, then sighed. “You know how sometimes the blokes here see things they aren't supposed to see or talk about stuff they aren't supposed to talk about - and then the staff complains that the hoover has malfunctioned because there's unexpectedly too much dust everywhere?”

Cutler rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. So?” Just because they were living la vida Gestapo now didn’t mean he had to spend his every waking moment quivering in fear.

“So I just saw something and I'm wondering how mad Hal's gonna be.” Regus gulped down half of the bottle.

“Hmm…” He pretended to ponder over it. “That entirely depends on the swing of his mood.”

If someone ever asked him to explain the regime in three words or less, that was what he would say: Hal’s mood swings. 

“Yeah, well, not my fault that he's got his bedroom shenanigans going on in _my_ library!” Regus pursed his lips. “I work there. It's my work place. Do I come to his office to have sex? No, I don't!”

“I’d like to see you try... “ Hal had never had any qualms about taking his fun to Cutler’s, but that was ancient history. “Hang on, shenanigans with whom?”

“What do you think? Hal version 2.0, who else?” Regus cradled the bottle nervously in his hands.

“Fucking hell!” 

That was so below the belt that he almost suspected Regus of having him on, except the old geek didn't have the wits to. Well, he had just floored him with that lovely nickname, _Hal version 2.0_ , but that hadn’t been intentional so it didn’t count.

“Hello, details, please? What exactly were they doing?”

“Having sex, duh! Look, I didn't stay to watch. But Hal was very-very naked and it looked like they'd had a few rounds before I walked in.”

Cutler tossed his bottle into the bin in barely suppressed fury, and said through gritted teeth: “Well, good luck not getting hoovered.” 

He turned around and knocked down a row of bottles like they were bowling pins before stalking off.

He was going to give Hal a piece of his mind and not even his Nazi routines or his new wonderboy were going to stop him.

Hal was in bed, sleeping like a log, and Cutler stopped himself just short of dragging him out of it or hitting him with one of those expensive bedside lamps.

“So what's next on the agenda? Screwing _at_ the parade and not instead of it? On top of a Union Jack, perhaps?”

Hal opened his eyes lazily. “That's a very delayed reaction, I should say. The parade was a long time ago.”

“The library was today and people are _talking_.” Cutler's eyes bore into Hal accusingly. He had expected more sense, if not from Hal, then from the other one. “You think you've got him eating out of your hand?” He snorted derisively. Hal tended to forget people weren’t actually his toy collection in the attic. “What's really happening here is he's waiting for a chance to stab you in the back. How do you know you won't end up like Snotty? They're already calling him ‘Hal 2.0.’! The upgraded version!”

Hal laughed. “Is that so? ‘Hal 2.0’? I'm flattered. Is that why you're here, yelling at me? Because they don't call _you_ that?”

Cutler struggled with the age-old anger flaring up inside him. He thought he had got wise. Apparently not. Hal could still corner him with nothing but words. 

He didn’t want to be Hal 2.0. He didn’t want to hide from phone calls from Mr I-Ate-My-Dentist and pretend starved humans tasted just as good.

He didn’t want the fear, the banners, the _pomp_.

Yeah, right.

He said through gritted teeth: “You might have found your ideal recruit this time. And one day you might just find _yourself_ disappeared, this time for good. That’s all.” He turned to leave.

“That would be touching if it came from anyone but you.” Hal turned his back on him. “Next time would you please hold your emotional eruption until such time as I was _not_ asleep? Oh, and Cutler? Make sure the Eurostar express is ready for the weekend. I'm going to Paris.”

“What? What do you mean 'coming from anyone but me’?” He didn't get his reply so he hissed: “Buy your bloody honeymoon tickets yourself!”

He took care to slam the door on his way out.

The next morning he showed up at the anteroom that passed for his office, habitually late, and found the frame of his diploma peeking out of a cardboard box. 

Some suited-up bimbo was warming his seat.

“The hell? Who’re you?” 

She looked up, unperturbed. “Karen.” She pointed at the nameplate. “I'm Lord Hal's PA. Do you have an appointment?”

Cutler was struck speechless with sheer disbelief. Finally, he stuttered: “N-no, sorry, wrong room.” He glanced at Hal’s door. “Have a nice day.” 

He had probably made it sound like DIAF.

He grabbed the box and fled, going over his belongings obsessively. Hal’s reaction to his car models sprang to mind, another sore spot. He should have known everything was going to hell when Hal sneered at his collection and refused to let him keep it here. If Hal expected him to beg the nightmarish job back, he was in for a disappointment.

He stormed back, ignoring the bimbo’s bewildered look, and grabbed a stapler. “This stapler? _Mine_. Oh, and don’t cut yourself on the mouse mat.” She had no right to touch his things. 

He wandered outside of the palace grounds and sat down on the kerb, rocking back and forth, a lump in his throat. His eyes prickled. It wasn’t about any one thing - he just hated the circus his life had turned into.

He took out his diploma, fogged it up with his breath and wiped it off with his sleeve.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** : _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.  
>  **A/N** : Apologies for the delay, we've lost our TARDIS.

A bracing wind roused Rook into full wakefulness as it blew over the deserted platform. Gone were the blue timetable screens and the autowalks had been powered off, but on the surface, everything was spotlessly clean. No glaring reminders of the riots to ruin his Lordship’s morning.

The entire Eurostar was at their disposal. Rook wasn’t surprised, all things considered. He only wondered when the human resistance would get around to blowing the tunnel up - not during this ride, he should hope.

They sat next to each other, Hal taking up most of the armrest and leaning into him. Outwardly cheerful, he flitted from political trivia to French landmarks that he intended to visit. Rook enjoyed the conversation and the drinks and occasionally the view. Kent remained green and the Medway Viaducts light grey, an illusion of peace that was fragile and beguiling.

Hal stopped talking for a while and just looked through the window placidly, for all the world having forgotten about Rook’s presence. 

No sooner had Rook closed his eyes than his seat went down - Hal must have pressed the button. He climbed on top of Rook, his eyes twinkling mischievously, and whispered: 

“Well, you know what they say about vampires on trains. We get hungry.”

Rook was almost positive that Hal had invented that on the spot.

When the train emerged from the tunnel, Hal was already in his seat, well-groomed and relaxed.

“I couldn’t help noticing the recent changes in the staff,” Rook commented. One of them had to breach the subject sooner or later.

Cutler had striven to project unshakable confidence about his position at Hal’s side - and yet, even his quarters at the palace had been vacated. Rook knew that Hal hadn’t staked him, if only because he liked to be aware of all the key players. Those ambitions didn’t extend as far as keeping tabs on Mr Snow, though. Not yet.

Hal arched an eyebrow. “There have been changes? Really?” He narrowed his eyes, half-teasing. “Have you perchance been counting the maids? We could compare notes.”

Rook would have none of that. “I was referring to your new PA.” 

Everyone was replaceable, but not interchangeable, and Rook doubted that this was the last he had heard of Cutler.

“Skilled, isn’t she?” Hal settled back contentedly. “I've only had her for a handful days and she's already doing her job better than Cutler had ever done it. And she’s far less chatty. She also makes good tea, you would appreciate that.” 

“It begs the question, though: why was Cutler your PA in the first place? I seem to recall that he used to be a solicitor.”

“Well, strictly speaking he was both my lawyer and my PR representative. I had an actual PA for about a month when I'd just assumed the throne, but... I got bored.” Hal smiled dangerously. “No, I'm joking. She died at the hand of a freedom-fighter. Like many others. So I thought Cutler could do all that anyway.”

“Karen appears to be very efficient. But what of Cutler’s other jobs?” It came out far more ambiguous than he had intended it to sound.

“Why? Have you got a candidate?”

“That is my point precisely. HR has never been my strong suit and someone has got to manage public relations.”

“Dominic, I appreciate your addiction to work, but this is rather outside your competence anyway. And we happen to be on holiday.”

Rook fell silent. It was obvious that Hal hadn’t really put too much thought into it. While Cutler had been a poor fit for a PA and had dedicated more time to office pranks than to his actual responsibilities, he could be quite creative when motivated.

Hal said, suddenly more serious: “I didn't throw Cutler out, if that’s what you’re wondering about. He left. I fired him, true, but that was because he had refused to do his job. I believe it's not a crime to fire a negligent employee.”

“Is that all there is to it?” Rook leaned towards him. “Is firing him the extent of what you’re going to do to him?”

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, but apparently I'm not as evil as you thought I was.” Hal smirked. “What about you, Dominic? Are you planning to stab me in the back one day?”

Rook gave Hal an unimpressed look. “Why, yes, I’ve made a note in my organiser.” 

Hal poured himself some wine. “I wasn't joking.”

Rook frowned. “You've lost me, I’m afraid.” 

“You do know they call you 'Hal 2.0'?” He watched him with a playful smile, belied by his fixed, humourless look.

They as in Cutler? And there Rook had almost mustered a grain of sympathy for him.

“That is new.” Rook examined his own unease like a cobweb thread he had missed during the last house-cleaning. “If I _did_ have such plans, I would deny everything, wouldn’t I?”

Hal said in a teasing voice: “I promise to act surprised and suitably heartbroken when it happens.”

Was that how Cutler had acted when Hal fired him?

“You won’t be able to get suitably heartbroken until you trust me with my gun,” Rook murmured.

“There is a line you don't want to cross now.” Hal sounded rather snappy. He added in a calmer tone: “All our days are numbered. You expect betrayal from me no more than I expect one from you. It doesn't mean we should let our tomorrow poison our today.”

Rook inclined his head in agreement. “Shall we drink to that?”

“Of course.” Hal clinked their glasses together. 

Rook sipped his wine and lit a cigarette. Unlike his adherence to his principles, the conversation quality didn’t deteriorate over time. Hal understood him, challenged him and dazzled him with those mercurial smiles, devastatingly likeable.

The train’s motion lulled Rook to sleep. He walked into Hal's quarters, catching him with a new recruit, the face blurred out. Hal said in a bored, dismissive tone, "Didn't Karen send you the memo? You're past the expiration date." 

He jolted awake in cold sweat, greeted by the Parisian suburbs. Hal looked up from his book. “Are you all right?”

Rook put on a smile. “Yes, absolutely.” He excused himself to freshen up.

When they got off the train, a limousine was there to pick them up. It took them to a luxurious five-star hotel in the heart of old Paris. Unlike the B&B in Newquay, it couldn’t be farther away from mould and decay. The lobby was clean, the air scented with the fragrance of fresh flowers and the all-human staff numerous, amiable and ready to serve. 

Hal instantly launched into a tirade of orders in perfect French. Rook recognised a word here and there and didn’t venture beyond polite _oui_ 's and _merci_ ’s and _bonjour_ 's.

In contrast to the palace, the indulgences were subtle, without a hint of aggression, but Rook felt less like a nouveau riche and more like a pauper who had won a lottery.

* * *

When Rook suggested that they should visit the Louvre, Hal was ready to go down on his knees and compose a spontaneous ode to him. Such interest was certainly new for a recruit of Hal's. Fergus mostly judged things by their level of threat and their nutritional value, and Cutler's brain resided somewhere between his phone and his trousers.

They circled around the museum, slowly and meticulously, following no particular plan. The palace stood empty, entirely at their disposal. The French were very particular about their heritage; nothing had been looted or vandalized.

Hal let Rook run wild. Every now and then Rook turned to him for a comment or a shared appreciative smile. Hal wondered how deeply hidden this interest must have been. Rook, in his own words, had never had time for anything but work but he never seemed to be the type to appreciate art. He kept crashing Hal's preconceptions, one after another. No, Rook had nothing to fear, not for years to come: Hal would not get bored soon. Not with all these bombshells.

As they reached the _Mona Lisa_ , Rook stood back at a respectable distance and observed, his tone light: 

“The lady is the same age as you, isn't she?

Hal curved his lips, half-consciously mimicking the legendary smile. 

“I might be a few years older. And certainly less renowned. But at least I don't require a bulletproof glass case around me.”

They rounded the corner and stopped by the famous _Liberty Leading the People_. 

“Well-well, tempted to censor this yet?” asked Rook.

Hal chuckled. “Lucky France is out of my jurisdiction. But it is quite inspirational for the wrong sort of people.”

“Freedom is a very seductive notion, in general.” The painting did a good job of showing that. Still, any notion could be inverted. Perhaps Hal should display this painting in London instead of his propagandist posters to show that freedom was also a fickle, tawdry whore in a torn dress walking callously over dead bodies.

The interiors around them changed to gold-plated furniture and red velvet, as though they'd never left Britain.

“It makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it? All that luxury,” Hal observed.

“It seems so... unnecessary.”

“Not everything should be _necessary_.” Hal walked off to something that looked like a mini-throne and lowered himself onto it. “Some things are just... nice.”

Rook narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You are planning mischief.”

“ _Moi_?” Hal looked at him, wide-eyed and innocent, and raised his hands defensively. “My mind is pure and my intentions are noble.” He leaned back shamelessly, a slow, suggestive smile playing on his lips.

Rook couldn't quite hide his amusement. “Spoken like a true monarch.” A few months ago, he wouldn't have joked like this, having been too busy hating the regime. Hal considered this yet another one of his personal achievements.

Paris had always been fun, in many ways. Less austere than London, less uptight, even as far as the vampire population went. Hal always remembered France fondly. He intended not to let that tradition break.

* * *

They left the museum only after the nightfall, passing by the glass pyramid and the triumphal arch. The squares and streets of Paris lay open before them, bathed in the sparse street lights. Few had been shattered, most hadn't been lit up. Hal flippantly declaimed poetry in French and then launched into revolutionary songs, evidently determined to either make Rook laugh or cry.

So far he had made Rook want to procure really good earmuffs or put his fingers into his ears for the lack of thereof. He stoically bore with it, determined not to encourage his tormentor. Hal might even get carried away and walk into one of those lampposts.

No such luck. “I know _Les Miserables_ by heart. And I don't mean the musical.” He pulled a _hint hint_ face.

“Do spare me your dramatic recitals on the Parisian sewers,” Rook said dryly.

That book was a legitimate torture weapon but he kept the thought to himself - he was certain Hal already knew that.

Hal blinked. “You have _read_ it?” His unguarded surprise was almost endearing. Almost.

“My father happened to be fond of it.” Rook's fingers twitched.

“Dominic.” Hal sauntered up to him and placed his hands on his shoulders. “You never told me you had a father.”

“Did you think I'd sprung to life from the archive dust?”

“No, of course not. I'd pegged you for a test tube baby.” Hal grinned as he wound his arm around Rook's shoulders and they continued walking. 

The sidewalk cafes displayed none of the sunny Van Gogh colours; the people had been blotted out by their own blood running black ink. Past them, was a square with a lonely carousel instead of a monument.

Hal lit up at the sight and all but dragged Rook towards it. “Get on.”

Rook gave him a baffled look. “Hal, do you truly expect me to ride it?”

“No, I expect you to stand here and look pretty. Of _course_ I expect you to ride it! I assume you've been completely deprived of childhood, so let's rectify that. Now get on.”

Rook examined the carousel with a dubious, mistrustful look but it was a waste of energy to argue over such a trivial matter. He chose the least conspicuous mount. Which happened to be a unicorn.

Hal laughed. “Why, Dominic, are you trying to tell me something? You've got nothing to overcompensate for.” 

Rook didn’t change the horses. Hal poked around the wiring and the ride came to life, the music unexpectedly muted and unobtrusive. Then he leapt up onto the moving platform.

Rook looked down his unicorn’s side, rising up and sloping down. The carousel cast a soft circle of light on the cobblestones as they spun gently.

Dissatisfied with all other mounts, Hal positioned himself behind Rook, winding his arms insolently around his torso.

“I don’t believe my childhood would have entailed this,” Rook pointed out.

There was room enough for two, technically, but no room to wriggle away, their hips slotted into place. Rook tensed and gripped the horn with both hands. His fingers slipped downwards. 

“Well, perhaps your teenage years might have.” Hal nipped at the nape of Rook's neck. “Now, that father of yours. Was he like you?”

The worst possible timing, as always. “Think of it as a conveyor belt.” 

“You lied to me then. Was it a dynasty? Was he a man in grey too?” 

Rook clenched his hands tighter. “You didn't ask the right questions, and yes, he was.”

“Then you were born into this, not just recruited after the army.” Hal’s tone was the closest cousin of a pout.

“I’d had a brief rebellious phase.”

Hal kissed the side of his neck playfully. “You're having one now as well. Too bad I didn't have the honour of meeting this esteemed gentleman.”

“He can’t be that hard to picture.” If nothing, by studying the image Rook had worked so hard to project.

“What happened to him? I assume he... passed away?” 

“It was a noble death - in the line of duty.” That which Rook had been denied.

“What about your mother? Was she a colleague too?”

Rook blinked. “No, of course not. She just... was.”

“I couldn't help noticing that your department was rather misogynistic.” 

“I could say the same about you and yours.”

Hal chose to ignore that. “What about your grandfather? Was he in the DoDD?”

“Indeed he was,” Rook replied, in a brief rush of familial pride.

“I see a pattern here.” Hal snorted. “Which begs the question: _why_ are you not married? You should have been making mini-Rooks to inherit the mantle.”

“Please, you’ve got enough trump cards as it is.” He had been putting it off for a more opportune moment and right now, he couldn’t be gladder that he had done.

“What would your father have said if he'd seen you now?” Hal resumed nipping at the back of Rook's neck. It was a sensitive spot.

“He wouldn’t have recognised me.” That or he would have had a heart attack. Somehow the notion improved Rook’s mood.

“Why? Because you're a vampire, because you work for the regime he wouldn't have approved of or…” Hal trailed his hand down the horn. “Because of more personal reasons?”

Rook gritted his teeth. “All of those. Oh, and I failed to produce offspring, as you’ve so aptly put.”

Hal chuckled. “Given the circumstances, I'd say the latter is for the best, don't you agree?” His hand returned to Rook’s abdomen.

“What about you, then? Any biological children?”

“If I had them, I was never aware of that. But I tried not to procure them.” Hal paused. “It occurs to me that by modern standards I would have been perhaps too young to make a good father.”

Rook snorted. “May I remind you that the modern standards are no longer what they used to be?”

Hal laughed. “All right, by pre-modern standards dating back two years.” 

In the meanwhile, Rook was still fighting to banish his father's presence. “I inherited the pistol from him.”

“Really? It looks well-kept.”

“He always took great care of his belongings.” Better care than of his family, but that was all in the motto.

“As do you.” _As do I_ , implied Hal’s tone.

“I shouldn't have kept you from reciting poetry,” Rook concluded.

Hal shrugged. “I was merely trying to impress you with my exquisite French and my vast knowledge of poetic works.”

“Modesty, thy name is Hal Yorke.” Rook was craving a cigarette.

“Quite right. By the way, tomorrow we are invited to Lady Giselle's. She currently runs the country.”

Rook nodded. It was a necessity, since they were on her soil. He had already learnt to attend social gatherings without broadcasting utter martyrdom.

“One good thing about the French is that they remain gourmets even after they become vampires. So the food will be exquisite,” Hal added, with an air of finality.

When the carousel stopped, Hal slid off the mount leisurely, ignoring Rook’s exasperation. He strode towards the hotel without any hurry, looping his arm through Rook's.

He glanced back over his shoulder. The lights were still on, swimming in the darkness. The city could have come out of a gothic fairytale and they wouldn’t have been cast into the roles of innocent children.

* * *

Lady Giselle currently resided in Versailles. She was a stately dame in her seventies who looked like a Russian duchess that had fled the revolution. She wore heavy jewelry and had perfect command both of French and of English, so it was impossible to identify her native language. She was accompanied by a sullen boy of about eight, to whom she referred to as her grandson, and a young woman who looked bored and flustered by turns.

There were more mirrors than windows in the grand ballroom and none reflected them. If I become satiated with this crowd, Lady Giselle said, all I need is to look at the walls. They make it all seem rather like a dream.

To give credit where it was due, Rook made every effort to participate in the conversation and even allowed himself to be whisked off to the dance floor by a shapely, dimple-faced brunette. Hal chuckled and flashed Rook a mock encouraging look.

"Interesting choice," a voice came. It was Pierre, Lady Giselle's "grandson". He was sitting on the table, swinging his legs and watching the dancers.

“I beg your pardon?”

"For the Home Office. Is it true that he was one of those men in grey that had built up the resistance?"

Hal smiled. “He was.”

"You like playing with fire, Lord Hal," Pierre noted.

“No more than anyone else here. Yourself included. I hear you recently won quite a fortune on a dog fight, having entered the cage and bet on yourself.”

It was Pierre’s turn to smile.

“Word gets around, I see.”

“I was wondering if you were planning to repeat that feat.” Hoping, in fact.

“I'll let you know. I take it the fights are still not entirely legal in Great Britain?”

“We're working on it,” Hal assured him, his eyes following Rook and his partner. Rook really wasn’t any good with women. His interaction with them must have been limited to the intimidating looks he gave them when he wanted them to keep a supernatural occurrence a secret.

“ _Grand-mère_ is a little surprised you haven't brought M. Cutler," Pierre remarked. "Last time we had the honour of seeing you, Lord Hal, he was constantly by your side.”

“Oh, well, his work is so demanding,” Hal said flippantly. “I shall relay to him that you wish him all the best.” He knew perfectly well that was not what Pierre meant, but he flashed the boy a sweet smile. Despite his innocent looks, Pierre, not unlike Hetty, was a little viper.

Hal circled the ballroom, gliding past the empty mirrors. Another member of the local elite accosted him, losing him eight more minutes of time. The music stopped. From the corner of his eye, Hal saw Rook press his lips to the woman’s knuckles cursorily, a mere courtesy. She reached out and smoothed her fingers down the lapel of Rook's jacket, whispering something. Rook glanced in Hal's direction. Hal met his eyes and addressed him a sharp-edged smile.

“You shouldn't have turned down a lady on my account,” he rebuked, meeting Rook by the dessert table a few minutes later.

“On your account?” Rook gave him an innocent look and popped a small pastry into his mouth.

Hal smirked, feigning discontent. “Right. Because we live in the bloody USSR and this here is a proper capitalist country.”

Music flared up again, and he found himself looking at the mirror-paneled wall. Whoever said that evil cast a long shadow had never found themselves in a room full of vampires and mirrors.

“They're talking, you know. They think I'm out of my mind. They would have publicly executed you if they'd got to you first. They think _you_ single-handedly created the British resistance.”

Rook's eyes widened a fraction. “Do they now? Like you said, people always talk. I had no idea I was such a menace, though.”

Hal leaned into him and said in a low, confidential tone: “Let them make their poor guesses. People are always at their most vulnerable when they think they've got someone figured out.”

He devoted the rest of the evening to observing the infamous “grandchildren” of Lady Giselle’s. She showed clear favouritism when it came to Pierre. He was stocky, mobile in everything but the face that was aristocratically pale, framed by wavy black hair and perpetually masked with childish arrogance. The boy was of the same ilk as Hetty, which undoubtedly made him dangerous but also familiar.

The girl, Clarisse, was another matter. Hal hadn’t met her before and though she had initially failed to intrigue him, he paid her more attention now. She was younger than Pierre as evidenced by the way she cast her eyes downward every time he spoke to her. She maintained her place near Lady Giselle, taking leave only to refill the _grand-mère_ ’s wine glass and occasionally to indulge a request for a dance. Her nervous disposition took some of the charm out of her, though with her burnt caramel hair and her mat olive skin she could be rather pretty.

Hal danced with her. She moved fluidly, but he could feel the nervousness she radiated, and genuine at that. None of that finicking emotion that ladies often affected at his proximity. He didn’t try to flirt, didn’t even talk to her. She curtsied after the dance was over and returned to Her Ladyship’s side without a word.

The evening showed no sign of coming to a close, and the broad window-sills hidden behind heavy velvet curtains started to look very appealing. As soon as he was temporarily left to himself, Hal slipped behind one such curtain set and was amused to find the spot taken by none other than Rook.

“I'll tell you a secret, Dominic,” said Hal, moving Rook’s outstretched legs and sitting down opposite him. “I can't stand ceremonies.”

“That makes two of us.”

Outside, street lamps glowed softly in the hazy darkness. Thick windowpane made the night garden look like an impressionist painting.

“So why exactly have you turned the lady down?” Hal asked.

Rook sighed. He had clearly been hoping Hal had already forgotten about that.

“She seemed as if she would be trouble. I generally prefer to minimise my risks, if possible.”

Hal snorted. “No, you don't.” He tilted his head back, resting it against the jamb. “They are concerned because they view you as Cutler's replacement. They weren't afraid of him but they are afraid of you. Everybody knows what you did to Hetty. But nobody has got any proof.”

He produced a pack of cigarettes and offered it to Rook. They smoked in a strangely companionable silence. Catching Hal’s look, Rook smiled with the corners of his mouth and drew a vertical line on the windowpane, then added two parallel horizontal ones, making it look like an “H” lying on its side.

“This could be ridiculously hard to get off,” said Rook.

Hal raised his eyebrows and then laughed.

“You are very vindictive, you know. You get bored at a ball – and no window is safe from you.”

If Hal made an effort to filter out the low hum behind the curtains, he could almost succeed in believing that the outside world had forgotten about them. He could feel Rook’s eyes on him, inquisitive and bright, sliding down his throat, to the collarbone, and following the slopes of Hal's shoulders, as if yearning to take Hal apart and see how he worked.

Droplets of water trickled down the glass, elongating the central line and connecting the parallel ones, forming the familiar _vampire_ symbol, an invariable reminder that the world had better memory than Hal gave it credit for.

* * *

Back at the hotel, Rook decided to make use of the outrageously large bathtub, indulging in a cigarette, whereas in the past, he would have sooner drowned someone in it. Grow frightfully adept at compartmentalising and life was suddenly something to be enjoyed.

“Hedonism suits you.” Hal walked in nonchalantly. 

Rook exhaled a ringlet of smoke. “Couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

Hal looked him over and smirked. “Dear God. I have raised a monster.”

“It's not truly monstrous until you join in.” Rook flicked the ashes off into the ashtray. “Just the right temperature too.”

Hal considered it and slowly started taking off his clothes. His face, though, remained serious, as did his tone. “Dominic, I'll be frank with you. I may have withheld the true reason for wanting to come here from you. It's not _just_ a vacation.”

Rook sat up straighter, collecting himself. “Go on.”

“I have reasons to believe that someone here is financing our resistance. Giselle may look intimidating but she's just a figurehead. Or at least she's got an inexcusable blind spot when it comes to her ‘grandchildren’.” Hal's tone was measured and business-like but that didn't make his movements any less seductive. “My money is on Pierre, but I wouldn't write Clarisse off just yet.”

“How do you intend to expose them?”

“I intend to put you on it.” Hal got into the tub and smiled at him. “You are good at this and you were part of the resistance.”

Rook owed French resistance fighters no allegiance and that simplified the matter. “I’ll do my best.”

Hal grinned. “Did I mention I suspect them of connections to the _British_ resistance?” He must have guessed the direction of Rook’s thoughts.

Rook reconsidered his initial evaluation: nothing could be straightforward with Hal Yorke. “Interesting.”

Hal leaned closer. “Do you trust me, Dominic?”

What a question. Rook studied him warily and lied: “To an extent.” 

Hal arched his eyebrows. “Really? Unfortunately I can't say the same. I'm not a very trusting person.” He ran his hands over Rook's knee under the water. “But it's not a test. I'm asking you to do this because you've got the necessary experience. And because your tactics have always been sophisticated as opposed to Fergus's.”

Rook smiled. “It’s always a test and I shall treat it as such.”

“Whatever makes you feel better.”

Rook brushed his fingers over Hal's chest. “Why didn't you tell me from the start?”

“I wasn't sure if my suspicions had any grounds.” Hal licked a few stray water drops from Rook's shoulder. “I thought if I was wrong, it'd just be a vacation.”

“How considerate of you.” His hands wandered over Hal's body, retracing old paths and discovering new ones. He must assuage Hal’s growing paranoia.

He wondered what mattered more to Hal: that his betrayal would be a disaster to the state or that his absolute loyalty would be a final testament to Hal’s complete victory over him.

What had happened to the man who played for his death all those months ago? He no longer belonged to the country or the job.

A new crack ran through the cocoon every time he surrendered a part of himself. Emerging out of it, was a creature of raw instincts and little reservations. He would have deemed it too dangerous to contain.

Hal whispered his name in his ear, a low, heated whisper that sounded sultry and raw: ‘ _Dominic_ ’. Filthy, unrestrained, unburdened by morality and faith, bound only by his own desires.

Rook grabbed Hal by the hair and tilted back his head, exposing the neck. Viciously, he sank his teeth into it. He was ambitious enough to demand his loyalty returned in full. He would continue testing Hal's defences, looking for a way in. Nothing less would do.

Hal growled, pushed him off and bit his shoulder, a groan of his own escaping Rook's throat. He felt dizzy, like the carousel had never stopped spinning. 

And then the switch was flipped and they were back to their masks, even though flushed with each other’s blood and the heat of the bathroom. 

“You have got tomorrow to find out something about the resistance. The day after tomorrow you and I are invited to another reception.”

“That should be enough time,” Rook replied levelly.

Hal kissed him on the forehead. “Good.” He rose and got out of the bathroom, grabbing a towel as he headed to the door.

Rook watched the water drain away, inexplicably ill at ease. He brushed that premonition away. He would catch some sleep and then get down to the task at hand.

* * *

The address that Chloe had slipped into his pocket at Lady Giselle’s was a loft in the historic centre. The final piece of the puzzle finally slid into place: Hal had been expecting the allies of the resistance to contact Rook all along. The role didn’t sit well with him.

He had to knock twice before there was a movement at the door. He said: “ _La Liberté guidant le peuple_.”

A casually dressed young man with broad features and a nut-brown complexion let him in. Another vampire. He unceremoniously searched Rook for weapons and took away his stake and his phone. 

“House rules,” he said, entirely unapologetic. 

Rook scanned the flat as the young man ushered him to the living room: no other guards lurked about. It was sparsely furnished and the chairs were made of plastic.

Chloe smiled her dimpled smile and greeted him warmly, gesturing at him to take a seat in front of her. It struck Rook that he found her melodious, slightly-accented voice particularly pleasant. 

There was a light, modern crossbow propped on the table within her reach, next to a vase of flowers. She had a different air about her than at the ball: alert and determined.

Rook accepted a glass of water but didn’t drink it. The young man stood by the door, his gaze fixed somewhere above Rook’s head. 

Chloe knew of the bomb in the Buckingham Palace that had been planted during Rook’s first weeks as a vampire, the new policies in Britain and other minor and major incidents. The more she spoke, the clearer became the underlying question: where was Rook’s hand in all that? 

Rook was wondering how to remove the guard when the man solved it for him. His phone rang and with a frown, Chloe allowed him to go out to the terrace. 

“You don’t look like a passive man, Mr Rook. Cautious but not passive. What is your game?”

“You are much better informed than I expected, Chloe.” He made a mental note to search for her sources closer to home. “Surely you are aware of the risks I’m running by meeting you.”

“ _Are_ you? Running any risks?” She studied him intently. “Or are you having a little affair on the side?”

He raised his eyebrows, saying almost playfully: “I could be.” He had to move fast.

“Yes.” The smile slowly slid off her face. “But not with us.”

Rook pushed himself out of the chair at the same time as she aimed the crossbow and that saved his life. The wooden bolt lodged itself into his left shoulder.

He didn’t give her the chance to reload, knocking the weapon out of her hands. His wounded side throbbed with pain when he pushed her to the wall.

“You were right: I’m no good with women.” 

She struggled against his hold, trying to free her hands. “Don’t worry, you’re good with _bloodthirsty dictators_.”

“I know who you're working for.” Actually, he didn't. He still hadn't narrowed it down to either Pierre or Clarisse. “Give him up and you may yet live.”

Pierre was the one spreading rumours and he just seemed inherently more dangerous.

She hissed, “Do you know who _you_ are working for? I was dead the moment I made my mistake about you.”

He could barely make out her features behind the curtain of her hair but he imagined them twisted with hatred. He had seen those looks before, at the public executions. She shouldn’t have given herself away. 

He knocked her out and reloaded the crossbow, in the nick of time. The guard chose that moment for his belated return and Rook shot him in the heart. 

He tied Chloe to a chair and waited. She came to fairly quickly. 

“Chloe, I am very good at interrogations. Trust me, you wouldn’t want to find that out the difficult way.”

He was reluctant to proceed. Not because she had danced with him but because this would be a serious blow to the resistance. 

She measured him with a venomous look. “Soulless traitor.”

He washed his hands after he was finished and dialled Hal. A soul wasn’t a cricket ball, you could only lose it once.

“Aren't you too old to be changing numbers just to confuse me?” Hal asked.

Evidently this wasn’t the call he had expected. “Excuse me? Shall I call you back later?”

“No, it's fine. Talk.”

He said briskly: “I found out the name. We must proceed swiftly.”

“There's no need to rush. Like I said, tomorrow we are invited to a certain event.” He heard Hal pour himself a drink. “Please tell me it's the brat.”

“No, it's the girl. What would you have me do with her accomplice? You’ve seen her at the ball, the woman I danced with.”

“Have you got everything you could out of her?”

“Yes.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chloe stir.

“Then stake her and return to the hotel.”

“Will do.” He hung up. 

She attempted to topple the chair but she was too weak. She whispered, "People like you will destroy everything." 

Not Hal, people like him.

“You’re wrong.” He came up to her, carrying the stake. “It’s only people like me who can fix it.”

He bandaged his shoulder. The blood had already seeped through, staining his suit. He cleaned up after himself - it would buy them more time. After some consideration, he walked onto the terrace and scattered Chloe's ashes over the street. Then he collected their phones and useful papers and finally left the flat.

Hal had had two girls brought in. He toyed with his share lazily as she struggled and tried to plead with him through the gag. 

He smiled at Rook invitingly, his shirt half-buttoned. “Just in time. I took the liberty of making dinner arrangements. _And_ dessert.” He pointed at a big dish of pastries that Rook had liked at Lady Giselle’s.

Rook felt sick, but it wasn’t the sickness of betrayal. “How thoughtful of you.” He stalked closer to the other girl, brushing her hair out of the way and pressing his lips to her pulse point. He let the throbbing roll through him and draw out his hunger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _La Liberté guidant le peuple_ = the password was the French name of that same painting Hal had picked apart earlier in the chapter.


End file.
